JAUNTY 
N  CHARGE 


MRS.  GEORGE  WEMYSS 


r 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 


BY 


MRS.  GEORGE  WEMYSS 


NEW  YORK 

E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 
C81  FIFTH  AVENUE 


PUBLISHED,  IBIS, 

BT 

B.  P.  DUTTON  &  CO. 


Pviated  to  the  Uaited  SUte*  of  Am«ri«* 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 


WHEN  old  Mr.  Lawrence  died  he  left  a  share  of  his  busi- 
ness to  his  nephew  John  Lawrence,  and  such  piece  of 
furniture  or  picture  as  his  nephew  should  choose.  Now 
John  Lawrence  knew  well  both  the  furniture  and  the  pic- 
tures, and  wanted  none  of  them.  But  it  was  willed  he  must 
make  his  choice,  so  he  pondered  perplexedly. 

In  one  of  the  armchairs,  it  was  said,  the  great  Duke  of 
Wellington  had  once  sat.  In  the  other — a  chair  just  as 
old,  just  as  strong,  just  as  spacious — no  one  had  ventured 
to  say  the  great  Napoleon  had  ever  sat.  Whereas  Jaunty, 
clerk  to  old  Mr.  Lawrence,  must  often  have  sat  in  both. 

So  John  Lawrence  chose  Jaunty. 

The  partner  of  the  late  Mr.  Lawrence  pressed  a  picture 
upon  young  John,  and  young  John  chose,  under  compul- 
sion, the  portrait  of  an  old  man  wearing  a  wig.  There  was 
nothing  interesting  about  the  picture,  except  that  the  wig 
was  so  exactly  like  a  wig,  but  the  partner  seemed  so  ready 
to  part  with  it  that  John  took  it.  And  as  he  had  not  where 
to  hang  a  picture  he  gave  it  to  a  friend  about  to  marry,  and 
straightway  the  picture  ceased  to  be  the  portrait  of  an  old 
man  in  a  wig  and  became  the  distinguished  ancestor  of 
John's  friend. 

The  partner  did  not  press  Jaunty  upon  John  because 
Jaunty  was  uncommonly  useful.  On  the  other  hand,  John 
Lawrence  had  shown  so  great  a  delicacy  and  niceness  in 
naming  what  he  thought  should  be  his  fair  share  of  the  busi- 

1 

1711726 


8  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

ness,  that  the  partner  felt  bound,  as  a  gentleman,  to  throw 
Jaunty  in. 

There  remained  just  one  chance.  He  took  it,  and  draw- 
ing John  aside  whispered  that  long  ago  Johnson,  com- 
monly called  Jaunty,  had  taken — under  strong  temptation 
— a  sum  of  money,  meaning,  of  course,  to  pay  it  back. 

John  asked  if  it  were  necessary  he  should  hear  this,  and 
the  partner  said  he  thought  so.  "I  kept  him,"  he  added. 

"Of  course,"  said  John.  "What  else  could  you  have 
done?" 

The  partner  hummed  and  hawed.  He  had  looked  for 
praise.  In  the  young  man's  voice  he  found  censure. 

"Did  you  raise  his  salary?"  asked  John. 

"Well,  hardly,"  said  the  partner,  smiling. 

"But  if  he  hadn't  been  able  to  do  with  what  he  had  be- 
fore, was  he  likely  to  do  .  .  ." 

The  partner  laid  his  hand  on  young  John's  arm.  "It's 
not  the  usual  method,  my  dear  boy." 

"No?  .  .  .  Well,  it's  mine." 

John  called  Jaunty.    He  came. 

"Well,  Jaunty,  I  have  my  choice  of  a  piece  of  furniture 
in  the  office  ...  I  have  chosen  you.  Will  you  come?" 
And  Jaunty  said,  "Yes,  sir,  if  you  still  wish  it  after  you 
have  heard  .  .  ." 

"I  have  heard,  and  I  still  wish  it.  There  is  only  one 
thing  to  be  said  .  .  .  there  is  no  sum  of  money  in  the 
world  with  which  I  would  not  trust  you." 

Even  that  declaration  of  faith  wasn't  enough  for  John. 
The  whole  world  had  got  to  trust  Jaunty,  and  he  would  see 
that  it  did.  He  would  take  a  house  in  the  country,  and 
Jaunty  should  be  churchwarden.  Jaunty  should  hand  the 
plate  on  Sundays.  He  should  be  treasurer  of  everything 
that  wanted  treasuring.  "Come,  Jaunty,  we  must  talk 
things  over,"  and  they  went. 

The  partner  watched  their  going,  and  he  shook  his  head. 
There  was  nothing  of  the  business  man  in  young  John,  and 
he  was  dangerously  impulsive.  As  a  matter  of  fact  in  this 


I 

JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  3 

he  was  justified;  the  whole  world  had  every  right  to  trust 
Jaunty.  Of  course  he  had  not  taken  the  money.  He  had 
not  denied  taking  it;  but  that  had  been  in  order  to  shield 
another,  dear  to  one,  dear  to  him.  So  ...  but  there!  it 
was  Jaunty  all  over,  and  he  made  no  fuss  about  it,  never 
thought  of  himself  as  a  hero,  nor  made  any  changes  in  the 
Litany  to  suit  his  own  particular  needs.  The  only  thing 
that  hurt  him  was  that  Mr.  Lawrence  should  have  been  led 
to  believe  him  guilty.  But  then  in  forgiving  him  and 
trusting  him,  Mr.  Lawrence  had  shown  him  a  side  of  hu- 
man nature  he  adored,  and  as  the  years  went  by  he  came 
to  think  of  himself  as  much  forgiven  and  much  blessed. 
After  all,  it  is  something  to  awake  every  morning  forgiven. 

When  Mr.  Lawrence  and  Jaunty  left  the  office,  Jaunty 
asked  what  he  was  to  be? — in  what  capacity  he  was  to 
serve  Mr.  Lawrence? 

"Not  such  long  words,  Jaunty,  please;  you'll  frighten 
the  children." 

Jaunty  asked  if  there  were  children,  and  John  said  the 
world  was  full  of  them.  Jaunty  knew  that.  "Yes,  but  in 
particular,  sir.  You  have  none?" 

"No,  of  course  not;  but  long  words  become  a  habit,  and 
by  the  time  I  have  children  you  won't  be  able  to  break 
yourself  of  it,  and  my  children  must  be  happy.  I  insist 
upon  that.  You  mustn't  frighten  them.  I  believe  man  is 
born  into  the  world  to  make  children  happy.  If  he  fails  in 
that  he  fails  altogether  .  .  ." 

"In  the  meantime,  sir?"  said  Jaunty  meekly,  believing 
himself  born  for  better  things. 

"Pray  for  their  mother,  Jaunty." 

"Is  she  ill?" 

"I  hope  not,  I  hope  not.  She  may  have  fallen  down  and 
cut  her  poor  little  knees,  for  all  I  know.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  is  possible  she  is  too  old  for  that  ...  I  don't 
know;  but  pray  for  her." 

"I  gather,  sir,"  said  Jaunty,  "that  at  present  she  is  un- 
known to  you — and  as  pleasant  a  dream  as  her  children?" 


4  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

"You  have  gathered  rightly,  but  for  all  that  she  needs 
your  prayers." 

At  that  time  Jaunty  thought  there  was  no  woman  in  the 
world  who  wouldn't  be  the  better  for  the  prayers  of  an 
honest  man,  but  he  didn't  say  so. 

"Then  begging  your  pardon,  sir,  I  repeat  ...  in  the 
meantime  ?" 

"What  shall  you  be?     Suppose  we  say  librarian?" 

Jaunty  was  willing  enough.  So  it  was  arranged,  and 
within  the  course  of  a  few  days  he  entered  the  service  of 
Mr.  John  Lawrence  as  librarian. 

But  the  books — where  were  they? 

He  looked  round  the  room  in  which  lodged  Mr.  Law- 
rence. 

Mr.  Lawrence  said  for  all  he  knew  they  might  still  be 
lying  unborn  in  the  brains  of  their  authors;  in  the  pub- 
lishers' offices,  or  in  the  bookshops.  Jaunty,  knowing  bet- 
ter, looked  for  them  on  barrows,  in  side  streets. 

"Write  them  yourself,"  suggested  John;  but  Jaunty 
shook  his  head,  and  he  started  to  make  a  library  after  his 
own  heart  and  entirely  to  his  own  taste.  He  bought  books 
on  kites;  therefore  the  sum  of  money  spent  was  not  larger 
than  Mr.  Lawrence  could  well  afford,  and  the  subject  was 
one  that  had  interested  Jaunty  from  his  earliest  boyhood. 

Mr.  Lawrence  had  no  objection.  What  kind  of  a  kite, 
though?  The  bird,  or  the  thing  with  a  long  string  tail 
that  wouldn't  go  up  ? 

"Yes,  sir,  that  kind,"  said  Jaunty  (not  that  he  would  so 
have  described  it). 

Then  suddenly — to  Jaunty  everything  Mr.  Lawrence  did 
was  done  suddenly  and  without  premeditation — John  Law- 
rence married  the  loveliest  girl  he  had  ever  seen.  Whether 
he  loved  her  because  she  was  lovely,  or  whether  she  was 
lovely  because  he  loved  her,  Jaunty  could  never  determine, 
but  lovely  she  was. 

It  was  said — not  by  those  in  authority — that  she  had 
only  just  left  the  schoolroom  when  John  Lawrence  fell  in 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  5 

love  with  her.  They  were  wrong.  Jaunty  knew  exactly 
how  it  had  happened. 

She  was  still  in  the  schoolroom  when  Mr.  Lawrence  fell 
in  love  with  her.  She  was  about  to  leave  it — that  was  true 
— and  hurriedly,  so  hurriedly  that  she  ran  out  of  the  door 
straight  into  the  arms  of  Mr.  Lawrence  who  was  coming 
in  at  the  door.  Jaunty's  point  was  that  she  had  not  left 
the  schoolroom,  and  for  the  sake  of  argument  he  stuck  to 
his  point. 

It  was  said — by  those  who  were  not  in  a  position  to 
judge — that  John  Lawrence  had  held  her  in  his  arms  a 
second  longer  than  he  need  have  done.  But  Jaunty  denied 
that.  Mr.  Lawrence  wasn't  the  man  to  do  such  a  thing.  It 
was  purely  accidental.  If  the  accident  hadn't  happened 
"it"  might  never  have  happened.  By  "it"  Jaunty  meant 
the  marriage;  but  he  had  to  admit  that  "it"  was  a  happy 
accident  of  fortune  and  different  from  other  marriages,  in 
which  he  had  little  faith. 

The  John  Lawrences  took  a  house  in  the  country.  They 
took  it  for  the  strangest  of  reasons — at  least  Jaunty 
thought  them  strange.  When  he  asked  if  the  rooms  were 
good  rooms,  Mrs.  Lawrence  said  she  really  didn't  know — a 
wren  had  built  in  the  creeper  on  the  wall  of  the  house, 
that's  why  she  had  taken  it.  She  loved  wrens. 

Mr.  Lawrence  took  the  house  because  Mrs.  Lawrence 
loved  the  wren  that  had  built  in  the  creeper  that  grew  on 
the  wall,  and  he  loved  her.  He  didn't  tell  Jaunty  that 
was  why,  but  Jaunty  knew. 

"Was  there  a  view  from  the  windows?"  he  asked,  and 
Mr.  Lawrence  said  he  hadn't  looked  out. 

"You  must  go  alone  next  time,  sir,"  he  said. 

"Go  alone  where?"  asked  Mr.  Lawrence.  The  very 
thought  was  alarming. 

"To  look  at  a  house,"  replied  Jaunty. 

"But  we  shall  never  look  at  another." 

"It  is  taken,  absolutely,  then?" 

It  was  taken  absolutely,  and  Jaunty  owned  himself  and 


6  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lawrence  lucky  when  he  saw  the  house. 
The  wren  had  builded  wisely,  and  there  was  a  view  from 
the  windows,  and  the  rooms  were  large. 

Although  to  Jaunty  the  house  seemed  large,  there 
wasn't  room  for  both  wife  and  librarian,  so  Jaunty — to 
whom,  in  his  office  days,  it  had  become  second  nature  to 
say  people  were  not  at  home  when  they  most  certainly 
were — became  by  mutual  consent  butler  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
John  Lawrence.  "Not  a  butler,  exactly,  Jaunty,"  said 
John.  "Confidential  butler." 

"Most  confidential,"  added  Mrs.  Lawrence,  and  she 
looked  at  Jaunty  with  so  great  a  kindliness  that  he  became 
— just  Jaunty,  pure  and  simple,  and  remained  it  ever  after. 

There  were  no  three  happier  people  in  the  world  than 
those  three  until  by  a  perfectly  natural  sequence  of  events 
they  became  four.  Although  by  many  it  was  expected,  to 
Jaunty  it  ever  remained  a  miracle,  and  the  name  of  the 
miracle  was  Pamela.  When  she  was  just  tall  enough  to 
sniff  with  zest  at  the  rose  nearest  the  ground,  on  a  bush 
that  grew  in  the  garden — Jaunty  holding  on  to  the  bow  of 
her  sash  behind — the  happy  party  of  four  became  a  radiant 
community  of  five.  And  the  name  of  the  fifth  was  Sally. 

Thenceforth  Jaunty  grew  in  dignity  and  decorum.  Not 
only  had  he  one  example  to  set  now,  but  two.  Two  chris- 
tening mugs  to  clean,  two  porridge  spoons  to  clean;  and 
two  babies  to  imprison,  at  meal-times,  behind  the  bars  of 
two  high  chairs. 

And  so  passed  happy  and  uneventful  years  until  Sally 
began  to  pray  straight  to  God  and  not  to  "peoples."  Then 
Jaunty,  being  of  the  "peoples,"  felt  out  of  it.  There  was 
nothing  to  prevent  "peoples"  listening,  of  course,  so  Jaunty 
lingered  and  listened. 

On  her  eighth  birthday  she  prayed,  "O  God,  make  bad 
people  good  and  good  people  nice,"  and  he  wondered  at  the 
wisdom  of  the  child  who  had  never  been  in  business. 

Ten  years  later,  on  her  eighteenth  birthday,  she  prayed, 
"O  God,  give  me  romance,  and  don't  let  me  marry  the 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  7 

curate,  with  ebony  hair-brushes,  and  without  opposition/' 
and  the  curate  in  question  wondered  why  Mr.  Lawrence, 
who  was  known  to  love  his  neighbour  better  than  himself, 
should  never  be  at  home  to  him.  Jaunty  knew;  but  not 
having  overheard  Sally's  prayer,  attributed  the  rout  of  the 
curate  to  no  higher  power  than  his  own.  For  by  the  time 
Sally  was  eighteen  Jaunty  was  in  charge  and  had  been  for 
eight  years — ever  since  the  death  of  Mrs.  Lawrence. 

After  she  died  it  was  said  by  many  in  the  village  that 
Jaunty  took  too  much  upon  himself;  that  it  was  ridiculous 
to  suppose  Mrs.  Lawrence  would  have  left  her  children 
to  the  care  of  a  butler,  however  good  and  devoted  a  servant 
he  might  be,  and  however  indifferent  a  butler.  But  Jaunty 
affirmed  calmly  and  with  determination  that  as  his  lady 
had  died  she  had  looked  from  him  to  her  children,  and  from 
her  children  back  to  him.  So  there  was  nothing  more  to 
be  said.  Unless,  of  course,  Mr.  Lawrence  chose  to  say  it, 
and  as  he  was  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  wound  a 
faithful  soul,  it  was  never  said — and  Jaunty  remained  in 
charge. 

And  why  not?  He  had  the  face  of  an  Archbishop — a 
perplexed  Archbishop,  certainly,  but  surely  all  Archbishops 
have  the  divine  right  at  times  to  be  perplexed — and  he  had 
a  soul  of  pure  gold  and  a  mind  above  suspicion;  unless  he 
had  good  reason  to  suspect;  then  had  he  not  suspected  he 
had  lacked  perspicacity.  He  was  as  quick  as  any  Arch- 
bishop would  have  been,  or  as  any  one  in  the  village  was, 
to  see  that  Mr.  Lawrence  alone  couldn't  bring  up  two  girls, 
and  there  was  no  one  else  entitled  to  do  it,  except  Mrs. 
Lombard,  an  aunt,  who  made  little  effort  to  exert  the  au- 
thority that  Jaunty  denied  she  possessed. 

He  made  mistakes,  of  course,  in  ordering  the  children's 
clothes.  What  man  deserving  of  the  name  would  not? 

In  answer  to  a  letter  of  his,  ordering  six  yards  of  Va- 
nilla, striped  blue  and  white,  a  very  well-known  and  re- 
spectable firm  wrote: 


8  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

"MADAM, — With  reference  to  your  esteemed  order  for  six 
yards  of  Vanilla,  striped  blue  and  white,  we  are  unable  to  pro- 
cure the  exact  material,  but  beg  to  enclose  patterns  of  Viyella, 
which  we  trust  may  suit  your  purpose. 

"Trusting  to  be  favoured  with  your  valued  order,  and  as- 
suring you  at  all  times  of  our  best  services  to  all  commands," 
etc.,  etc. 

And  Jaunty  blushed.     He  had  done  his  best. 

He  did  his  best  too  when  he  ordered  shoes  for  Pamela. 
He  sent  an  outline  of  her  foot;  but  in  drawing  it  he  slanted 
the  pencil  outwards,  and  the  bootmaker  wrote  that  he  had 
no  such  size  in  stock,  but  could  procure  the  same;  and 
suggested  a  gentleman's  shoe,  a  light  walking  shoe.  Now 
Pamela  at  that  time  was  fifteen,  tall  and  slender,  with  feet 
small  for  her  size  and  exceedingly  straight  and  narrow. 

Between  her  eighth  and  her  eighteenth  birthday  much 
happened  to  Sally.  Much  that  was  happy,  much  that  was 
sad.  But  all  that  was  sad  became  as  a  gentle  breeze  ruf- 
fling still  waters  compared  to  the  devastating  storm  that 
overwhelmed  her  at  her  mother's  death.  The  waters  closed 
over  her,  and  the  darkness  remained  throughout  all  the 
long  days  of  her  eleventh  year.  She  knew  she  could  never 
be  happy  again,  and  no  one  in  the  village  dared  offer  her 
any  comfort.  Even  Jaunty,  who  did  all  he  could  to  coax 
back  her  smiles,  couldn't  reassure  her,  because  the  desola- 
tion was  his  too.  But  when  the  spring  came,  and  every- 
thing young  began  to  stir,  Sally  too,  as  it  were,  awakened, 
and  groping  in  the  darkness,  she  grasped  hands  with  the 
Infinite.  She  didn't  know  it,  of  course;  all  she  knew  was 
that  the  world  was  a  happy  place  after  all,  and  she  ran  to 
tell  Jaunty  so.  She  bribed  him  to  listen.  She  would  never 
bother  him  again,  but  she  was  beginning  to  feel  happy. 
Things  were  bubbling  up  inside  her.  Was  it  wrong?  And 
Jaunty,  rejoicing,  said  it  was  right.  It  was  what  She 
would  wish. 

Jaunty  always  spoke  of  Mrs.  Lawrence  as  She  and  Her, 
and  Sally,  recognising  that  the  words  were  whispered  and 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  9 

spelt  in  capital  letters,  didn't  mind.  But  it  troubled  Pa- 
mela. Jaunty  troubled  her  altogether.  She  saw  herself 
chaperoned  by  him  in  the  future,  and  it  didn't  do.  Sally 
had  no  such  fears.  Jaunty  was  Jaunty,  which  was  expla- 
nation enough. 

"You  understand  things  so,"  she  said.  "Nobody  does, 
like  you,"  and  Jaunty's  soul  sang  a  psalm  of  thanksgiving. 
It  was  for  this  moment  and  other  moments  he  had  lived. 
But  the  grammar,  he  couldn't  let  that  pass  unchallenged. 

Sally  was  glad  she  had  spoken — even  ungrammatically — 
to  Jaunty  and  that  he  had  understood.  It  explained  so 
much,  that  understanding  of  his.  For  one  thing,  his  gentle- 
ness; for  another,  his  management  of  her  father;  his  won- 
derfulness  altogether. 

"She  seems  so  near,  miss,"  said  Jaunty. 

"She  is,  Jaunty,  everywhere!"  and  Sally  held  out  her 
arms  as  if  they  would  embrace  the  whole  world. 

"Sixteen,  you  are,  miss,"  he  said,  measuring  her  as  it 
were  across  the  wings. 

Sally  nodded. 

"What  about  your  hair?" 

"Hair?    What  about  it?" 

"Should  it  be  .  .  .?"  Jaunty  made  a  rolling  up  move- 
ment with  his  hands. 

Sally  shook  her  head  vehemently. 

"If  you  do — I  shall  cut  it  off.    Yes,  yes,  yes !" 

"No,  miss,  never!"  Here  Jaunty  was  determined.  He 
had  Biblical  authority  to  back  him  up.  He  wrote  out  the 
passage  from  St.  Paul,  in  which  hair  is  commended  as  a 
woman's  glory,  and  had  it  pinned  that  evening  on  to  Sally's 
pillow. 

Where  the  Scriptures  were  concerned,  Sally  was  pre- 
pared to  be  led  by  Jaunty.  He  had  been  her  instructor 
since  she  was  so  high.  "So  high"  is  a  standard  measure, 
and  every  one  who  has  loved  a  child  knows  just  how  high 
it  is. 

It  was  when  as  an  instructor  Jaunty  had  failed  most 


10  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

disastrously  that  as  a  butler  he  had  shone  most  brilliantly. 
When  Sally  was  six  years  old  he  told  her  one  day  that  she 
mustn't  be  afraid  of  dogs,  because  dogs  were  sent  by  God 
to  take  care  of  little  children. 

She  listened  to  this  with  grave  interest,  then  said,  "I'm 
very  glad  to  hear  that,  because  it  will  give  Jesus  a  rest," 
and  Jaunty  became  all  of  a  sudden  a  very  busy  butler  and 
gave  up  for  the  moment  the  religious  instruction  of  Sally. 
He  had  to  recover.  By  her  bedtime  he  imagined  himself 
recovered.  He  found  his  mistake  when  she  said  very  sol- 
emnly, "It's  no  use,  Jaunty,  praying  to  Jesus  to-night, 
because  Jesus  is  having  a  rest,  so  I  must  pray  to  the 
darlin',  kind  dogs,"  and  she  did. 

Sally  lived  in  a  village  and  knew  the  dangers  that  beset 
those  who  so  live.  Once  when  she  had  been  naughty  she 
was  told  that,  when  she  said  her  prayers  that  night,  she 
must  tell  God  she  had  been  naughty. 

When  asked  if  she  had  done  it,  she  said,  "No,  I  haven't, 
and  I  don't  mean  to  either." 

She  was  asked,  Why  not? 

"Because,"  she  said,  "God  will  tell  Mrs.  God,  and  it  will 
be  all  over  the  place." 

But  now  she  was  sixteen  and  Jaunty  was  worrying  about 
her  hair.  He  wasn't  sure  whether  it  should  be  up  or  down, 
so  he  went  to  find  Miss  Pamela,  who  was  learned  in  these 
matters;  and  he  found  her  in  the  hall  standing  before  the 
fire,  and  as  she  stood  she  thought,  and  as  she  thought  she 
pressed  a  log  gently  with  the  toe  of  her  shoe.  Then  she 
gave  it  a  sudden  kick  and  the  sparks  flew  upwards.  She 
turned  and  saw  Jaunty. 

"Take  them,  please,  Jaunty,"  she  said,  pointing  with  her 
toe  to  the  cups  on  the  hearthrug,  and  as  he  stooped  to  pick 
them  up  she  swooped  down  and  picked  them  up  for  him. 
"So  sorry,  I  always  forget  the  creaky  hinge  in  your  back." 

"It's  the  day  to-morrow,  miss,"  he  said,  straightening 
himself.  "You'll  humour  your  father?" 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  11 

"Yes,  Jaunty  dear,  it's  the  day  to-morrow;  but  all  days 
are  the  days,  and  all  days  we  humour  father." 

"Yes,  miss,  She  would  expect  it.  She  always  did.  She 
seems  so  near." 

"She  is  everywhere,  Jaunty,"  and  Pamela  held  out  her 
arms,  and  he  said  her  sleeves  pulled  in  the  armholes,  didn't 
they  ?  And  what  was  she  going  to  do  about  clothes  ? 

"Clothes,  Jaunty!  It  is  possible  to  get  clothes,  given  a 
little  money — more  or  less  ! — a  little  taste — a  profoundly 
optimistic  spirit  and  a  Frenchwoman,  by  the  day — but 
what  about  a  hundred  other  things?  Do  I  know  how  to 
come  into  a  room — harder  still,  how  to  leave  it?  Can  I 
attain  to  that  social  graciousness  that  exacts  everything 
and  gives  nothing?  Have  I  the  power  to  make  slaves  of 
men,  without  which  no  woman's  life  is  worth  living?  Now, 
Jaunty,  you  shall  be  the  French  Ambassador — no,  the 
Chinese,  he  is  more  ungetatable — more  inscrutable.  You 
must  smile  the  part — no,  Jaunty,  that  is  no  smile — there  is 
nothing  behind  that  I  can't  read.  It  says  quite  plainly  that 
you  want  to  get  rid  of  me — you  must  look  as  if  you  wanted 
me  to  stay,  and  you  must  get  rid  of  me  at  once — that's 
diplomacy." 

"Your  father  wouldn't  like  you  to  meet  a  Chinaman  un- 
less he  was  present,"  objected  Jaunty. 

"Well,  if  you  are  so  particular  .  .  ." 

"It's  not  me,  miss,  it's  your  father  .  .  ." 

"Very  well,  Jaunty,  you  shall  be  the  Brazilian  .  .  ." 

"Black  or  white?"  demanded  Jaunty  sternly. 

"Now,  Jaunty,  no  matter  his  colour.  I  will  come  into  the 
room — wait !" 

She  went  out  of  the  room,  waited  a  second,  and  opening 
the  door,  came  in.  "That's  right,  Jaunty — you  are  sur- 
prised at  my  beauty — the  mouth  less  wide  open,  I  think. 
That's  better." 

"One  moment,  miss,"  said  Jaunty.  "You  fail  in  the  very 
first  essential.  It  is  the  duty  of  a  distinguished  lady  to 
make  one  feel  at  ease.  You  make  me  extremely  uncom- 


12  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

fortable — and  I  won't  have  it,  miss,  and  neither  would  your 
father.  You  have  quite  nice  ways  if  you  will  use  them  as  a 
lady  should,  and  not  go  about  copying  a  second-rate  ac- 
tress. I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about  clothes." 

"Talk,  Jaunty,  talk;  but  please  remember,  yokes  and 
tucks  and  sashes  and  bibs  are  things  of  the  past;  neither 
is  book  muslin  worn  now — nor  dimity — nor  bombazine. 
Tippets,  too,  must  be  relegated  to  the  storehouse  of  your 
memories.  Neither  can  you  mention  pelisses — nor  must 
you  tell  me  to  put  on  my  bonnet,  because  I  shall  not  do  it 
— not  for  sixty  years,  at  all  events." 

"You  are  eighteen,  miss,"  said  Jaunty  plaintively.  The 
difference  between  eighteen  and  seventy-eight  seemed  im- 
mense. Miss  Pamela  an  old  lady  in  a  bonnet! 

Pamela  nodded.  She  knew  it;  who  better?  "Yes, 
eighteen,  and  unkissed,  unclothed,  uncared  for,"  she  said, 
raising  her  arms  in  mock  despair. 

He  begged  her  to  say  no  such  thing.  She  was  neither 
the  one  nor  the  other — nor  the  other — and  she  laughed  and 
told  him  he  was  a  ridiculous  creature,  as  indeed  he  was, 
and  every  one  knew  it;  but  it  was  only  Pamela  who  dared 
say  it.  Pamela  dared  much,  and  she  dared  it  delightfully; 
but  it  was  Sally  the  village  was  anxious  about.  From  the 
Vicar  downwards  every  one  felt  it  to  be  his  or  her  pleasant 
duty  to  look  after  her,  whereas  she  was  perfectly  prepared 
to  look  after  herself  and  every  one  else. 

Jaunty  dreaded  the  moment  when  his  young  ladies 
should  fall  in  love.  He  was  prepared  for  almost  any  other 
emergency.  He  comforted  himself  by  thinking  they  were 
much  too  young  to  think  about  such  things  as  love.  Poor 
Jaunty,  how  little  he  knew !  Sally,  it  is  true,  didn't  think 
much  about  such  things,  but  she  was  old  enough  to  know 
that  Jimmy  Beech  was  in  love  with  Pamela,  and  Pamela 
was  too  old  not  to  guess  it.  But  they  were  both  wrong. 
It  was  Sally  Jimmy  loved.  He  was  quartered  within  rid- 
ing distance  of  Panslea — not  easy  riding  distance,  but 
riding  distance  (love  is  no  exact  measurer  of  miles) ;  and 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  13 

when  he  had  the  time,  he  rode  over  and  spent  what  was 
left  of  the  time  in  waiting  for  Sally.  And  while  he  waited 
for  Sally  he  looked  at  Pamela. 

Every  one  looked  at  Pamela,  who  had  the  chance,  and 
having  looked  once  they  looked  again,  and  every  one  looked 
at  her  kindly;  not  so  much  because  they  wanted  to,  as  that 
she  wanted  them  to,  and  it  came  to  very  much  the  same 
thing,  and  that's  how  the  muddle  arose.  Jimmy  looked  at 
Pamela  as  she  wanted  him  to  look  at  her;  but  his  thoughts 
were  with  Sally.  How  should  Pamela  know  that — or  Sally 
either  ? 

So  Sally  was  perfectly  justified  in  telling  her  black 
spaniel  that  some  one  was  in  love  with  "Aunt"  Pamela — 
and  it  was  a  perfectly  safe  secret.  So  far  as  confidences 
of  women  went  the  spaniel  was  a  dark  tomb.  Where  rab- 
bits were  concerned  he  had  little  reticence  and  no  self- 
control.  But  then  Sally  didn't  pretend  he  was  anything 
but  the  comfort  of  her  life.  He  wasn't  a  well-trained  dog, 
of  course;  but  then  her  father  wasn't  a  well-trained  father; 
nor  was  Jaunty  a  well-trained  butler.  But  of  their  kinds 
they  were  the  best  in  the  world. 

One  day  after  Jimmy  had  waited  for  Sally  and  had 
looked  at  Pamela  he  went  back  to  Barracks  determined  to 
do  something — Sally  had  no  business  to  be  wandering 
about  for  hours  by  herself,  or  Pamela  to  exist  merely  to  be 
looked  at — and  he  found  a  brother  officer  learning  to  write 
Turkish  with  a  wooden  pen.  It  was  the  very  incentive 
Jimmy  wanted.  He  hated  writing  a  letter;  but  a  pen  like 
this  made  it  something  of  an  adventure.  So  he  took  it  up 
and  wrote  to  one  Anne  Beech.  She  was  his  sister,  and  he 
loved  her  beyond  everything  in  the  world,  with  one  excep- 
tion, and  the  fact  that  she  would  accept  that  qualification 
without  a  murmur  made  him  love  her  all  the  more,  for 
she  understood.  A  sister  who  understands  knows  much. 

Anne  Beech  lived  in  London,  and  her  dreams  were  of  a 
cottage  in  the  country  where  she  and  Jimmy  might  some 
day  live — supposing  he  did  not  marry  (a  vain  supposition 


14  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

where  brothers  are  concerned).  She  talked  of  her  dreams 
to  no  one  except  to  a  man  called  Michael  Mason,  and  then 
only  from  a  sense  of  duty,  because  it  seemed  the  kindest 
way  in  which  to  tell  him  that  his  dreams  could  end  in  noth- 
ing but  a  sad  awakening.  His  dreams  too  were  of  a  cot- 
tage in  the  country,  and  the  woman  who  should  wait  for 
him  at  the  gate  was  Anne.  But  Anne  was  determined  to 
wait  at  the  gate  for  Jimmy.  It  had  been  a  long  made 
promise.  Jimmy's  cottage  must  have  a  trout  stream  run- 
ning through  the  garden.  No  right-minded  man  dreams  of 
a  cottage  without  its  stream,  otherwise  his  dream  would  be 
left  high  and  dry.  It  was  a  delightful  dream  for  Anne, 
but  Jimmy  took  up  his  wooden  pen  to  write  of  another 
dream  altogether. 

"Anne,  darling,"  he  wrote,  in  brave,  black  characters, 
"you  always  understand — I  expect  you  know  already  what 
I  am  going  to  say — you  have  known  all  along,  I  am  sure — 
I  am  in  love.  It's  Sally  Lawrence,  of  course.  I  can't 
imagine  it  being  any  one  else.  I  can't  conceive  any  one  in 
his  right  mind  thinking  of  any  one  else  if  he  had  once  seen 
her — that's  the  worst  part  of  it  all !  She  can't  care  for  me, 
why  should  she  ?  But  you  can  come  and  j  ust  talk  about  me 
— very  diplomatically,  of  course — say  how  kind  I  am  to 
dogs  and  animals,  etc. !  Jaunty  does  all  he  can,  but  think 
of  her  brought  up  by  Jaunty.  She  wants  some  one  to  look 
after  her  frightfully.  Pamela  is  far  too  pretty  to  bother 
about  it.  She  laughs  all  day  .  .  .  and  you  can't  be  angry 
with  her.  Come  and  live  near  Sally!  You  might  just  as 
well  as  in  London — then  I  should  feel  sure  you  would 
make  it  all  right.  There's  a  cottage  leaning  up  against  the 
village  pump.  Sally  and  I  have  been  to  see  it.  She  says 
if  the  rain-water  butt  was  painted  green  the  whole  thing 
would  look  quite  different.  Nobody  uses  the  pump.  The 
roof  would  come  off  the  cottage  if  they  did.  The  rent  is 
thirty  pounds.  Buck  up ! 

"Dear  Anne,  I've  got  to  serve  my  time.  She's  a  child. 
Do  come  and  take  care  of  her  for  me.  Her  mother  was  the 


15 

most  beautiful  thing  in  the  world.  She  was  Sally,  lit  up. 
I  wonder  if  you  will  know  what  I  mean.  Sally  will  be  just 
like  her.  I  want  to  be  the  lamplighter." 

And  Anne  bucked  up,  and  she  came,  and  she  took  the 
cottage,  and  the  rain-water  butt  was  painted  green,  and 
the  cottage  did  look  different,  and  nobody  used  the  pump. 
But  that  wasn't  the  point.  Was  she  looking  after  Sally? 
She  loved  her,  of  course,  and  she  talked  Jimmy  by  the 
hour,  and  nearly  always  at  the  end  of  it  all  Sally  would 
say,  "I  will  tell  Pamela,"  which  wasn't  in  the  least  what) 
Anne  wanted. 

Anne  loved  the  cottage,  and  when  she  had  loved  it  more 
and  more  every  day  for  six  months  Jimmy  was  ordered  to 
India.  He  went.  Anne  stayed  behind  to  take  care  of  Sally 
for  him.  It  was  Pamela  who  cried  at  his  going,  but  it  was 
Sally  who  looked  to  his  coming  back,  and  Jimmy  felt  the 
pressure  for  hours  of  her  hand  on  his. 

That's  how  Anne  came  to  the  village,  and  Sally  said 
rather  plaintively,  "There  do  seem  to  be  an  enormous  num- 
ber of  women  in  the  world !"  and  she  was  right. 

In  the  village  alone  they  abounded,  and  that,  after  all, 
was  her  world. 

"Pamela  says,"  she  added,  "that  men  can  be  so  amusing." 

There  was  no  denying  it,  and  a  few  more  in  the  village 
would  have  been  a  help  in  more  ways  than  one;  but  there 
was  another  woman  still  to  come.  Anne  Beech  didn't  know 
it;  but  the  other  woman  was  coming  to  look  after  her. 
Anne  was  there  to  look  after  Sally.  Janet  Mason  was  com- 
ing to  look  after  Anne  Beech  for  Michael  Mason,  and  Anne 
was  worth  looking  after.  She  had  a  way  with  her,  a  frank 
smile,  and  a  warm  handshake.  In  addition  to  these  things 
she  had  a  graceful  length  of  limb  and  a  swinging  walk.  It 
was  worth  going  to  the  window  to  watch  her  pass.  Those 
whose  windows  opened  outwards  could  see  her  without 
difficulty.  Those  whose  windows  had  to  be  raised  and 
their  bodies  projected  through  them  in  order  or  disorder 
to  see  her,  felt  it  worth  the  trouble. 


II 


JUDGED  by  modest  standards,  the  Lawrences'  house  was 
large,  and  their  income,  judged  by  almost  any,  was  small. 
But  that  the  income  could  not  be  so  small  as  Mr.  Lawrence 
would  make  it  out  to  be  was  evident  to  those  of  the  smallest 
intelligence,  because  after  all  things  must  be  paid  for,  and 
if  they  had  not  been  paid  for,  the  village  would  have  heard 
of  it,  and  Jaunty  would  have  paid,  not  in  money,  perhaps. 

After  the  death  of  Mrs.  Lawrence  the  house  seemed  to 
grow  larger  and  the  income  smaller.  When  it  was  sug- 
gested to  Mr.  Lawrence,  by  various  relatives,  that  he 
should  move  into  a  smaller  house,  he  refused  even  to  think 
of  it.  And  his  children  knew  why.  Their  mother  had 
lived  in  the  rooms.  The  furniture,  the  books,  were  as  she 
had  left  them.  If  the  carpets  were  old,  her  feet  had  trod- 
den them,  and  in  the  eyes  of  her  husband  and  children  the 
ground  was  sacred  ground. 

There  were  more  than  the  husband  and  children  who  felt 
that.  There  were  those  of  the  village,  who  talked  softly 
in  those  rooms,  and  who  looked  up  quickly  when  a  door 
opened,  only  to  look  away  again,  remembering. 

When  Sally  dyed  the  worst  worn  bits  of  red  carpet  with 
beetroot  juice,  she  felt,  for  the  moment,  disloyal,  until 
Jaunty,  who  looked  on,  holding  the  beetroot  in  reserve,  re- 
minded her  that  he  had  seen  her  mother  do  exactly  the 
same  thing  when  it  had  been  less  needed. 

That  comforted  Sally,  and  she  dyed  away  with  renewed 
vigour  and  greater  success.  Invention  was  a  necessity  to 
her.  She  loved  contriving. 

It  showed  so  plainly  in  her  dress  that  Lord  Bridlingtoti, 
who  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  matter  except 
that  he  lived  on  the  outskirts  of  the  village,  asked  Lady 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  17 

Bridlington  if  she  couldn't  do  something.  Sally's  skirts 
were  too  short.  Lady  Bridlington,  in  her  heart  of  hearts, 
was  probably  glad  he  thought  so,  but  she  asked  what  she 
could  do.  She  knew,  and  he  knew,  or  he  ought  to  know, 
that  the  Lawrences  weren't  the  kind  of  people  to  whom  you 
could  offer  money,  and  she  supposed  it  was  shortness  of 
money  that  made  the  skirts  short. 

This  was  as  near  to  a  joke  as  she  had  ever  been,  cer- 
tainly since  she  had  become  Lady  Bridlington  and  stately, 
so  she  repeated  it  several  times,  that  nothing  might  be  lost, 
until  Lord  Bridlington  exclaimed  impatiently,  "Offer 
money?  Heavens,  no!"  and  he  bounced  out  of  the  room, 
shutting  the  door,  not  very  violently  certainly,  but  on  what 
Sally  would  have  called  "the  slammy  side." 

Lady  Bridlington  waited  a  moment  to  give  her  husband 
time  to  recover  himself  and  to  remember  his  position  (it 
was  so  new  that  he  was  not  as  yet  accustomed  to  it)  be- 
fore she  followed  him  and  suggested  that  a  meeting,  of  a 
sort,  should  be  called,  at  the  Vicarage,  for  instance,  and 
that  the  question  of  Sally  should  be  kindly  discussed — 
her  skirts,  her  education,  her  prospects  generally.  The 
meeting  should  consist  of  those  only  who  were  truly  de- 
voted to  Sally. 

Here  Lord  Bridlington  said  that  the  drawing-room  at 
the  Vicarage  wouldn't  hold  the  people.  Why  not  take  the 
village  hall? 

Lady  Bridlington  said  it  was  impossible  to  obtain  secrecy 
within  the  walls  of  a  village  hall. 

The  outcome  of  all  this  was  that  Anne  Beech  accepted  a 
mysteriously  worded  invitation,  and  found  herself  one 
afternoon  in  the  Vicarage  drawing-room,  with  an  album  of 
picture  postcards  poised  on  her  knee.  St.  Mark's  and  the 
pigeons  seemed  inevitable — nothing  could  save  her. 

Lord  and  Lady  Bridlington  were  there  too,  and  a  few 
other  people  of  lesser  importance,  all  seated  each  with  an 
album  on  his  or  her  knee. 

Mr.  Masters,  the  Vicar,  came  in,  and  Mrs.  Masters  col- 


18  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

lected  the  albums  and  laid  them  in  their  accustomed  order 
round  the  mahogany  table  in  the  bay  window.  Then  came 
a  pause.  What  was  going  to  happen?  For  what  purpose 
had  Panslea  been  gathered  together? 

The  Vicar  took  up  his  position  on, the  hearthrug.  In  a 
few  words  he  introduced  to  those  who  knew  him  so  inti- 
mately, Lord  Bridlington.  In  a  few  well-chosen  words  he 
proceeded  to  sum  up  Lord  Bridlington's  character.  With 
tears  in  his  throat  he  reminded  them  of  Lord  Bridlington's 
kindness  (they  had  all  experienced  it).  He  reminded  them 
further  of  Lord  Bridlington's  charity  to  all  men — where- 
upon Lord  Bridlington  rose  and  said,  after  all  it  wasn't 
so  long  ago  that  he  had  been  just  plain  Thomas  Brown, 
and  no  better  than  the  rest  of  them. 

Here  Lady  Bridlington  pulled  at  his  coat  tails.  He  was 
off  the  lines.  It  was  as  Lord  Bridlington  he  was  to  speak 
this  afternoon.  It  was  as  Lord  Bridlington  he  carried 
weight,  and  so  on.  At  this  critical  moment,  through  the 
open  French  window  stepped  Sally.  It  seemed  natural 
enough.  No  party  in  Panslea  was  complete  without  her. 
There  she  stood  beside  the  Vicar,  beaming  upon  every  one. 
Her  skirts  were  short,  of  course;  but  then  her  legs  were 
so  pretty,  her  ankles  so  fine. 

Well,  why  didn't  Lord  Bridlington  begin?  There  was 
whispering;  more  whispering;  and  finally  Sally  was  invited 
by  Mrs.  Masters  to  go  and  see  the  new  chickens.  Of  course 
she  took  the  hint  and  went,  followed  by  the  Vicar's  wife. 

Anne  Beech  then  guessed,  as  Sally  had  done,  that  it 
was  of  Sally  Lord  Bridlington  wished  to  speak.  At  once 
she  was  up  in  arms.  For  all  the  Vicar  had  said  of  Lord 
Bridlington's  kindness  and  his  charity  to  all  men,  she 
challenged  his  right  to  criticise  Sally. 

"The  subject  of  our  discussion  having  so  delightfully 
intruded,"  said  Lord  Bridlington,  "makes  it  very  much 
easier.  How  she  runs !"  he  exclaimed  softly,  looking  out 
of  the  window.  "We  want  to  talk  about  Sally. — Ah,  she 
has  cleared  the  pampas  grass!" 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  19 

It  is  possible  he  was  here  reminded  of  the  shortness  of 
her  skirts,  because  all  of  a  sudden  he  became  very  grave. 

"It  has  been  said  of  me — perhaps  by  some  here  present 
— that  I  have  a  weakness — well,  for  a  pretty  face.  It's 
not  true.  Well,  it  is,  of  course — but  I  like  women — all 
women — in  a  perfectly  nice  way,  of  course — pretty,  or — I 
like  them  no  more  nor  no  less  than  any  other  sensible  man 
— honest  enough  to  admit  it.  To  do  otherwise  is  to  go 
against  nature.  To  repeat  then — I  like  all  young  people — 
pretty  or — not  very  pretty." 

Here  those  who  could,  stole  side  glances  at  their  reflec- 
tions in  the  mirror  above  the  chiffonier,  and  came  to  the 
conclusion,  each  one  of  them,  that  at  moments  Lord  Brid- 
lington  might  regard  them  with  some  small  degree  of  af- 
fection— "not  very  pretty"  so  exactly  described  what  they 
saw.  No  mother  could  truthfully  have  said  more,  no 
mother  would  willingly  have  said  less. 

Lord  Bridlington  went  on.  "Somehow  or  other  I  feel  it 
my  duty  to  look  after  those  children — their  mother — it's 
all  I  can  do  for  her." 

There  was  a  decided  rustling  and  shuffling  among  the 
audience.  It  was  not  only  Lord  Bridlington  who  felt  he 
must  look  after  Sally. 

"We  all  feel  it,"  he  added,  corrected.  "We  all  feel  it. 
Now  Sally's  education — what  does  it  amount  to?" 

"May  I  speak?"  asked  Anne. 

"Do — do,"  said  Lord  Bridlington,  and  he  sat  down. 
Lady  Bridlington  let  her  hand  rest  for  one  moment  on  his. 
She  approved  of  him. 

Anne  rose:  the  room  approved  of  her;  of  her  appear- 
ance. She  did  the  village  credit.  She  was  charming  to 
look  upon  and  spoke  so  much  better  than  Lord  Bridlington 
spoke — at  least  they  were  sure  she  would,  because  it  was 
as  well  known  in  Panslea  as  elsewhere  "that  women  do — 
when  they  do." 

"Somehow  or  other,"  said  Anne  quietly,  with  admirable 
restraint,  "I  always  think  of  Sally  as  born  educated.  Of 


20  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

course  I  have  known  her  a  comparatively  short  time;  but 
it  does  not  take  long  to  know  what  she  is.  Upon  that  I 
think  we  are  all  agreed.  To  me  it  seems  wonderful  what 
she  knows.  She  can  nurse  a  sick  child — can  quiet  a 
drunken  man — can  advise  young  men  and  women — wisely, 
too.  She  knows  a  lot  about  farming.  She  can  ride  and 
drive — and  play  games — and  the  whistle  pipe.  Less  well, 
I  admit,  the  piano.  She  knows  an  extraordinary  amount  of 
very  curious  history.  She  has  learnt  from  her  father 
things  not  usually  considered  necessary  for  girls  to  know, 
in  Panslea  at  all  events — Latin  and  Greek — elementary 
perhaps.  More  thoroughly  she  has  learnt  to  play  the  game. 
She  can  amuse  a  roomful  of  children  on  a  wet  school-treat 
day.  She  has  addressed  a  political  meeting;  made  the 
people  listen  to  a  speaker  they  had  come  to  boo  at  .  .  ." 

"Poor  Donkins,"  whispered  Lord  Bridlington;  "quite 
true,  she  did!" 

"She  can  do  a  great  many  things,"  went  on  Anne,  "and 
she  is  the  kindest  thing  on  God's  earth,  and  I  think  one 
of  the  prettiest."  She  might  have  added,  "And  Jimmy 
thinks  so  too."  But  she  didn't. 

"Miss  Anne,"  said  Lord  Bridlington,  rising  and  blowing 
his  nose,  "you  have  moved  us  deeply  by  your  words.  May 
I  say  one  thing?  Only  one.  Sally's  influence  is  too  great, 
if  I  may  venture  to  say  so,  in  the  village. 

"What  she  tells  my  tenants  to  do,  they  do.  What  I  tell 
them  to  do,  they  do  after  they  have  asked  her  if  they 
should.  The  rents,  for  instance !  She  pays  the  rents,  or 
gets  some  one  to  do  it,  for  tenants  I  should  be  glad  to  get 
rid  of.  Makes  respectable  people  of  utter  scoundrels. 
Then  her  petti  .  .  ." 

"Bridlington!"  said  his  wife. 

"One  thing  more,  only  one,  my  dear.    She's  no  linguist." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Anne,  "a  year  abroad  would  help  that. 
She  has  an  ear  for  music  and  an  immense  friendliness." 

"The  very  point,  Miss  Anne,  I  was  making  for,"  said 
Lord  Bridlington.  "Can  anything  be  done  that  way? 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  21 

Just  give  my  agent  one  year  in  the  village  without  her  and 
he  says  he  can  do  wonders." 

"Of  course,"  said  Anne,  "when  she  is  older  she  will  learn 
discrimination.  It  is  only  her  love  for  everything,  at  pres- 
ent, that  overflows.  She  is  at  that  wonderful  age  which 
knows  that  sinners  are  only  those  who  have  not  been  loved 
enough  .  .  ." 

"It's  enough  to  make  sinners  of  us  all,"  said  Lord  Brid- 
lington,  looking  foolishly  affectionate.  "I  often  think,'' 
he  went  on,  "what  a  widow  she  would  make  .  .  .  left  with 
a  young  family  to  bring  up!  There's  no  limit  to  her  in- 
telligence. She  could  manage  a  large  property — with 
Blank's  help,  of  course." 

There  was  a  pause.  Blank  was  Lord  Bridlington's 
agent.  Whose  widow  did  he  propose  Sally  should  be? 
His  son's,  his  delicate  eldest  son's  ?  Anne  got  very  pink. 

"Enough,  my  dear,"  whispered  Lady  Bridlington. 

"Yes,  dear.  .  .  .  Well,  my  dear  friends,  the  fact  is  that 
— Sally  knows  French  indifferently  well.  The  question  is, 
Who  shall  approach  Mr.  Lawrence  on  the  subject?" 

"Anne  Beech,  of  course,"  said  all  with  one  voice. 

Anne  promised  to  approach  Mr.  Lawrence.  Failing  Mr. 
Lawrence,  Jaunty  must  do,  and  in  most  cases  he  did  ex- 
cellently well. 

The  meeting  was  considered  at  an  end  when  a  voice 
said,  "Does  Pamela  know  French?" 

The  question  was  tremulously  asked  by  a  little  woman 
who  hitherto  had  not  spoken  a  word.  It  was  a  pertinent 
question  and  one  deserving  of  consideration. 

"She  looks  French,"  said  another  little  woman  who  had 
also  remained  silent  throughout  the  meeting. 

Here  the  Vicar  rose  looking  stern  and  pained — he 
cleared  his  throat. 

"I  feel  it  my  duty,"  he  said,  "to  remind  you  that  there 
is  nothing  so  delicate,  so  easily  shattered  as  the  reputation 
of  a  young,  beautiful  and  motherless  girl.  .  .  .  Shall  we 
disperse?" 


22  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

And  the  two  little  women  who  had  been  silent  up  to  the 
making  of  their  singularly  unfortunate  remarks,  slunk 
home  without  tea. 

And  Anne  turned  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  She 
imagined  she  succeeded  in  hiding  her  amusement,  but  of 
course  she  did  not,  for  a  dark  laurustinus  bush  just  outside 
the  window  made  of  it  an  indifferent  mirror,  which  may 
have  made  Anne's  smile  appear  larger  than  it  really  was. 
For  Anne  was  ever  careful  not  to  smile  to  the  hurt  of 
any  one. 

"I  thought  it  a  compliment  to  say  a  woman  looked 
French,"  said  the  one  silent  woman  to  the  other  as  they 
walked  home. 

"In  France,  dear,  it  may  be,"  said  the  other. 

When  every  one  was  gone,  Mrs.  Masters,  who  had  found 
the  chickens  dull  and  Sally  less  welcome  than  usual,  said 
to  her  husband,  "I  was  sorry,  dear,  to  miss  the  meeting.  I 
never  think  it  a  good  plan  to  come  through  the  window — 
but  you  encouraged  Sally  to  do  it — you  remember?  What 
was  decided  at  the  meeting?" 

The  Vicar  was  unable  to  say.  The  discussion  had  been 
very  desultory  and  somewhat  beside  the  mark.  Lord  Brid- 
lington  had  gone  too  far.  He  had  discussed  Sally's  peculiar 
qualifications  for  widowhood. 

"Sally  a  widow?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Masters.  "I  cannot 
imagine  it.  The  village  would  be  furious." 

The  Vicar  said  the  village  must  learn  submission,  and  he 
smiled  kindly.  "Then  Anne  Beech  spoke — not  altogether 
relevantly,  I  thought.  We  all  know  what  an  excellent 
child  Sally  is." 

"And  we've  known  it  longer  than  Anne  Beech." 

"Longer,  yes,"  he  admitted. 

"Who  else  spoke?" 

"Unfortunately,  Miss  Doe  and  her  sister." 

"They  spoke?     But  they  are  so  quiet  as  a  rule." 

"They  were  not  noisy  to-day." 

"What  did  they  say?" 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  23 

"Well,  it  appears  that  they  thought  Pamela  was  in  need 
of  instruction  as  well  as  Sally.  It  has  occurred  to  me,  I 
must  say — and  when  it  was  suggested  that  Sally  should  be 
instructed  in  the  French  tongue  Miss  Doe  said,  'Does  Pa- 
mela know  French?'  There  was  no  harm  in  the  question 
had  not  Miss  Eleanor  Doe  put  in  her  word.  She  said, 
'Pamela  looks  French.'  There  was  a  pause;  of  course, 
the  position  with  regard  to  those  children  is  peculiar. 
Panslea,  as  it  were,  has  undertaken  to  protect  them,  to 
care  for  them,  to  shield  them  from  the  slightest  breath  of 
scandal.  I  felt  the  moment  had  come  when  I  must  speak 
firmly,  so  I  said,  'There  is  nothing  so  delicate,  so  easily 
shattered,  as  the  reputation  of  a  young,  beautiful  and 
motherless  girl.'  " 

"Dear  Bryan,  how  wonderful  of  you  to  be  able  to  speak 
like  that,  so  to  the  point.  What  happened?" 

"Miss  Eleanor,  I  think,  saw  what  she  had  done.  She 
and  her  sister  went  home.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  that  was  it !  I  knew  I  hadn't  overestimated  the 
number  of  buns.  I  can  tell  to  a  bun  now !" 

It  is  possible  the  Vicar  was  thinking  of  other  things, 
because  he  said,  'Yes,  my  dear;  I  often  wonder  if  the 
parish  knows  wha  it  owes  you,"  and  his  wife  blushed  with 
pleasure,  then  generously  remembering  a  woman  less  for- 
tunate than  herself,  said: 

"I  think  I  shall  just  walk  down  and  see  Miss  Eleanor. 
She  mustn't  fret.  What  should  I  do  if  you  spoke  to  me 
like  that?  Bryan,  does  Pamela  look  French?" 

The  Vicar  would  not  commit  himself,  yet  he  had  twice 
passed  through  Paris,  so  was  qualified  to  express  an  opin- 
ion. Why,  wondered  Mrs.  Masters,  should  Miss  Doe,  with 
her  limited  knowledge,  have  ventured  to  say  so? 

The  Misses  Doe  lived  across  the  Green,  in  a  small  house 
which  was  large  enough  for  all  their  needs.  So  was  their 
income;  at  least  Miss  Eleanor  had  been  heard  to  say  so. 
Miss  Doe  never  mentioned  money,  not  even  taxes.  There 
were  those  in  Panslea  who  would  have  liked  to  know  what 


24  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

income  it  was  precisely  that  was  large  enough  for  Miss 
Doe  and  her  sister  to  live  upon — not  from  curiosity,  of 
course,  but  just  from  an  interest  in  how  the  other  part  of 
a  village  lives. 

Miss  Eleanor  would  never  have  gone  to  the  length  of 
mentioning  her  income  if  it  had  not  been  to  explain,  as  it 
were,  her  occupation  in  life.  She  said  she  had  enough 
money  to  enable  her  to  put  to  such  good  use  as  she  was 
able  the  small  talent  God  had  given  her.  Whether  it  was 
God  who  gave  her  the  power  to  paint  what  she  called  minia- 
tures was  not  for  Panslea  to  say.  It  had  enough  to  do  in 
finding  the  likeness  without  trying  to  trace  the  finger  of 
God  in  the  painting. 

Miss  Eleanor  painted  miniatures  of  those  only  who  had 
— as  she  tenderly  expressed  it — "passed  over."  She  was 
prepared  to  paint,  free  of  charge,  miniatures  of  those  sol- 
dier sons  who  had  met  their  heroic  deaths  on  active  service. 
She  made  a  gentle  concession  so  far  as  to  include  soldier 
sons  who  had  died  of  certain  kinds  of  fevers,  contracted 
abroad,  in  bad  climates.  But  those  who  had  met  their 
deaths  at  polo  she  could  not  include.  There  she  drew  the 
line;  with  tears  perhaps,  but  she  drew  it. 

Babies  who  had  passed  away  she  loved  to  paint.  That 
all  babies  had  blue  eyes,  and  pink  cheeks,  and  curly  hair 
was  a  point  conceded  by  most  mothers,  because  how  could 
any  one  find  fault  with  a  gift  so  gracious?  And  if  the 
baby  had  not  had  curly  hair  at  the  time  of  its  premature 
passing  away  it  must  have  had — had  it  lived,  and  the  nurse 
persevered  with  the  upward  turn  of  the  brush — so  Miss 
Eleanor  said.  She  painted  too  the  miniatures  of  husbands 
of  truly  sorrowing  widows.  With  widows  she  set  a  time 
limit;  she  did  not  begin  to  paint  for  some  years,  for  the 
widows  might  marry  again  and  her  labour  be  lost. 

More  black-edged  envelopes  were  carried  by  the  post- 
man to  Miss  Eleanor's  door  than  to  any  other  door  in 
Panslea.  It  gave  her  a  certain  distinction  in  the  eyes  of 
the  postman,  who  had  been  three  times  a  widower.  As  to 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  25 

herself,  she  had  found  a  way  of  expressing  sorrow  for 
those  in  trouble  that  she  could  not  so  delicately  have  ex- 
pressed in  words. 

When  Mrs.  Masters  arrived  at  the  house  she  found  Miss 
Eleanor  at  home,  washing  her  paint  brushes.  Miss  Eleanor 
showed  some  confusion  on  seeing  Mrs.  Masters  and  has- 
tened to  say  she  hardly  dared  to  think  what  the  Vicar  must 
have  thought  of  her.  Mrs.  Masters  was  quick  to  explain 
that  it  was  only  because  of  the  very  peculiar  position 
Pamela  and  her  sister  occupied  in  Panslea  that  the  Vicar 
had  felt  it  necessary  to  speak  so  strongly.  "Now  if  it  had 
been  any  other  girl — or  even  Lady  Bridlington  .  ,  ." 

"I  am  so  careful  in  what  I  say,  as  a  rule,"  said  Miss 
Eleanor,  "but  it  will  be  a  lesson  for  me".  I  am  grateful 
for  that.  And  a  lesson  so  kindly  given  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Masters  said  her  husband  had  felt  it  very  much. 
"Having  to  do  it,  I  mean,  and  you  had  no  tea." 

Miss  Eleanor  blushed  and  said  she  had  lunched  well 
and  it  was  early  for  tea. 

"Yes,  but  tea  is  tea,  when  all's  said  and  done.  It  was 
a  pity." 

Then  they  talked  of  other  things — of  the  Lawrences 
principally — and  Mrs.  Masters  left  feeling  she  had  been 
of  some  comfort  to  Miss  Eleanor.  But  halfway  home  she 
remembered  she  had  forgotten  to  implore  to  be  allowed  to 
see  the  miniatures.  Another  day  must  do!  And  probably 
it  did.  But  those  living  in  a  village  must  remember  the 
painter  who  paints  in  their  midst — and  no  other  day  does 
quite  so  well  as  to-day;  because  the  light  will  never  again 
be  quite  so  good. 


Ill 


As  it  happened  Jaunty  came  first  to  Anne's  hand,  not  Mr. 
Lawrence. 

Anne  met  him  in  the  village  and  found  him  willing 
enough  to  talk.  He  was  worried  about  the  young  ladies. 
Miss  Pamela  was  coming  out  and  he  didn't  know  where 
the  clothes  were  to  come  from.  Anne  wondered  if  it  were 
the  moment  to  suggest  Sally  going  abroad.  She  ventured 
it,  however — as  she  had  promised — and  Jaunty's  face  broke 
into  a  hundred  puckers  of  perplexity.  Of  course  he  didn't 
know  so  much  about  Mr.  Lawrence's  affairs  now  that  Mr. 
Lawrence  'had  got  that  roll-top  desk — American,  they 
called  it!  Anne  laughed  and  Jaunty  proceeded  to  explain 
that  when  you  shut  the  top  the  whole  thing — every  drawer 
—locked ! 

Anne  said  she  knew  that.  Jaunty  thought  it  no  laughing 
matter.  He  hadn't  the  same  hold  over  his  master  that  he 
had  had  before.  It  was  not  Mr.  Lawrence's  fault.  The 
thing  was  given  by  relations  and  was  automatic.  Anne 
said,  Why  not,  when  relations  themselves  were  automatic? 

Jaunty  smiled;  the  explanation  he  felt  was  due  to  Mr. 
Lawrence,  for  he  knew  well  enough  that  Mr.  Lawrence 
thought  that  to  look  after  anything  implied  a  want  of  con- 
fidence in  those  who  were  already  engaged  in  looking. 

It  was  relations  who  were  worrying  Jaunty.  They  were 
writing  now  about  Miss  Pamela's  clothes.  If  they  would 
do  more  than  complain  he  wouldn't  mind.  Why  not  help 
practically?  He  drew  from  his  coat  pocket  an  illustrated 
catalogue  and  asked  Miss  Beech  if  it  were  possible  Miss 
Pamela  could  wear  anything  in  the  least  like  these  horrible 
pictures. 

Miss  Beech  said  she  thought  there  were  fashions  that, 
adapted,  might  suit  her  very  well. 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  27 

"They  are  not  what  She  wore/'  said  Jaunty.  Then  in  a 
whisper  he  told  Miss  Beech  that  he  had,  locked  away  in  a 
drawer,  full  instructions;  but  they  would  come  too  late. 
Anne,  not  understanding,  did  not  ask  from  whom  the  in- 
structions were  to  come,  and  Jaunty  did  not  say. 

He  saw  no  reason  why  Miss  Beech  shouldn't  see  Mr. 
Lawrence,  but  he  suggested  it  should  come  about  quite 
naturally.  An  arranged  interview  Mr.  Lawrence  hated. 
The  plumber  knew  that  and  had  caught  Mr.  Lawrence  only 
that  morning  in  the  village  outside  the  post  office.  The 
result  had  been  everything  the  plumber's  wife  could  de- 
sire. This  was  an  immense  encouragement  to  Anne. 

It  came  about,  the  interview,  quite  naturally,  on  the  high, 
hard  road,  Mr.  Lawrence  on  his  pony;  Anne  on  hers. 
Which  happy  chance  robbed  the  situation  of  any  stiffness 
there  might  have  been.  Because  any  pauses  that  might 
have  seemed  awkward  in  the  house  were  filled  in  the  road 
by  the  backing  into  its  respective  ditch  of  one  or  other  of 
the  ponies. 

A  passing  car  buzzed  right  through  the  middle  of  the 
money  part  of  the  discussion,  and  when  the  ponies  were 
restored  to  order  Anne  said,  "As  we  were  saying,  the  money 
in  all  these  things  is  the  difficulty — education  is  so  expen- 
sive !"  and  Anne  ran  her  hunting-crop  up  and  down  the 
pony's  mane  and  the  pony  shivered  with  joy,  at  least  it 
was  counted  for  joy  in  Panslea. 

Mr.  Lawrence  thought  the  money  was  not  worth  consid- 
ering, because  he  had  an  idea.  Now  Anne  knew  that  Mr. 
Lawrence's  idea  on  any  subject  was  not  likely  to  be  Lord 
Bridlington's ;  but  for  all  that  it  might  be  worth  hearing. 
But  this  idea  she  was  not  to  hear,  for  Mr.  Lawrence  turned 
his  pony  round  and  made  off  in  the  direction  from  which 
he  had  come.  Anne,  knowing  both  the  pony  and  the  rider, 
could  not  be  sure  in  which  direction  the  rider  had  meant 
to  go.  But  if  he  had  meant  to  go  in  that  direction,  where 
was  he  going?  And  what  was  he  going  to  do?  She  deter- 
mined to  wait  a  moment.  If  the  pony  had  gone  that  way 


28  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

to  suit  himself,  Mr.  Lawrence  would  probably  persuade 
him  to  turn  before  they  reached  the  hill.  But  Mr.  Law- 
rence and  the  pony  dropped  over  the  crest  of  the  hill  and 
disappeared  from  sight. 

Anne  turned  her  pony  and  went  home,  wondering  as  she 
rode  what  Mr.  Lawrence  was  going  to  do. 

What  Mr.  Lawrence  was  going  to  do  was  simple  enough 
and,  to  himself  at  all  events,  most  obvious. 

If  it  were  necessary  that  Sally  should  know  French 
better  than  he  knew  it,  he  was  going  to  get  some  one  who 
could  teach  her.  If  only  people  would  be  frank  with  him 
and  tell  him  what  they  thought  his  children  needed  he 
would  do  his  best  to  give  it  them.  Jaunty  was  wonderful, 
but  even  he  failed  at  times.  He  lacked  imagination  and 
invention;  he  was  in  so  many  ways  a  woman. 

The  first  thing  Mr.  Lawrence  had  to  do  was  to  get  to  the 
station.  He  got  there.  The  second  thing  was  to  put  the 
pony  up.  He  put  it  up.  The  third  thing,  the  easiest  of 
all,  if  the  dullest,  was  to  wait  for  the  train.  He  found  one 
was  due  in  half  an  hour.  It  was  in  these  things  he  thought 
himself  lucky.  He  waited.  The  half-hour  passed  quickly 
enough.  A  commercial  traveller  willing  to  talk  was  found 
and  exclusively  engaged  for  the  time  being.  Now  the 
commercial  traveller  had  never  before  found  a  listener  pos- 
sessed of  so  amazing  a  curiosity.  Rubber  heels  left  most 
people  cold.  Not  so  this  man  with  the  twinkling  eyes  and 
the  ready  smile.  It  was  most  extraordinary  his  power  of 
assimilating  knowledge.  In  a  few  moments  he  had  grasped 
just  what  kind  of  a  woman  she  was  who  favoured  the  re- 
volving heel,  and  why!  What  kind  of  man  he  was  who 
wore  the  tip  only,  and  why!  The  half -hour  having  flown, 
Mr.  Lawrence  got  into  the  train  close  at  the  rubber  heels 
of  his  commercial  friend  and  in  time  London  was  reached. 
Mr.  Lawrence  made  straight  for  a  post  office  and  there 
begged — for  one  moment — the  use  of  the  Post  Office  Di- 
rectory. 

The  girl  behind  the  grille  was  only  too  anxious  he  should 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  29 

have  it  for  as  long  as  he  liked,  and  was  about  to  offer  him 
what  assistance  lay  within  her  power  to  give  when  he  said 
he  had  found  what  he  wanted. 

Who  says  manners  in  post  offices  are  not  what  they  might 
be?  Let  any  one  who  says  so  ask  for  the  Postal  Directory 
as  Mr.  Lawrence  asked  for  it,  and  see  what  happens ! 

Had  he  found  it?     The  girl  seemed  almost  sorry. 

"Not  quite,"  he  said.  "Ah!  'Home!' — he  had  found  it 
— Yes,  'Home  for  Aged  Foreign  Governesses.' "  That 
was  exactly  what  he  had  been  looking  for,  and  it  was  to  be 
found  at  Highbury.  He  supposed  'buses  went  that  way? 

It  was  as  well  to  make  sure.  He  went  out  into  the 
street  and  there  he  met  a  small  boy  carrying  a  large  bas- 
ket. So  he  asked  him — he  stooped  to  do  it — if  'buses  went 
Highbury  way? 

"  'Ighbry  wy?"  said  the  small  boy,  he  should  just  think 
they  did.  Why  his  aunt  lived  there!  But  the  gentleman 
must  first  go  to  Victoria.  It  was  only  a  step.  He  was 
going  there  himself.  He  could  show  the  gentleman  the 
way  if  he  liked.  There  was  nothing  the  gentleman  would 
like  better.  The  small  boy  gave  his  basket  a  hitch  up  and 
Mr.  Lawrence  taking  in  the  situation  at  a  glance — big 
basket,  small  arm — took  the  basket  and  carried  it,  finding 
it  surprisingly  weighty.  He  remarked  upon  it  and  the 
small  boy  looked  knowing  at  first,  then  evidently  trusting 
this  long-legged  gentleman  with  a  kind,  far-away  face,  con- 
fided to  him  the  exact  nature  of  the  contents  of  the  basket. 
The  gentleman  seemed  impressed  without  showing  any  par- 
ticular excitement,  and  said  it  was  quite  a  valuable  basket. 
The  boy  remembered  that  later — to  his  cost. 

By  the  time  Victoria  was  reached  the  small  boy  had 
found  a  very  soft  corner  in  Mr.  Lawrence's  heart.  It 
wasn't  difficult  to  find.  The  youngest  child  seemed  to 
know  the  way,  and  if,  in  addition  to  youth,  the  child  had 
trouble,  it  had  only  to  follow  a  track  that  other  little  feet 
had  worn.  This  small  boy,  it  appeared,  was  troubled.  His 
mother — delicate  in  some  ways — had  lately  presented  him 


30  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

with  twin  sisters,  an  attention  he  could  well  have  dispensed 
with.  By  way  of  consolation  Mr.  Lawrence  said  they 
would  make  excellent  housemaids  later  on,  and  the  small 
boy  was  ready  to  agree,  so  far  as  the  plainer  of  the  two 
went.  For  the  prettier  one — and  he  admitted  it  wasn't 
saying  much — he  thought  shop  or  office.  What  did  the 
gentleman  think?  Mr.  Lawrence  promised  to  speak  to 
Jaunty  about  it. 

The  small  boy  seemed  to  know  so  much  that  Mr.  Law- 
rence asked  him  if,  by  chance,  he  knew  of  a  French  gov- 
erness— old  and  past  her  work?  The  boy  knew  they  ex- 
isted; but  they  didn't  come  much  his  way.  He  would  make 
inquiries  if  the  gentleman  liked?  It  was  surprising  how 
many  people  met,  in  the  poultry  line,  so  to  speak — espe- 
cially delicate  ladies — but  they  were  mostly  well-to-do. 
He  thought  eggs  more  likely  where  elderly  French  gov- 
ernesses were  concerned — not  fresh  eggs,  of  course. 

Here  Mr.  Lawrence  made  a  mental  note.  Sally  must 
send  fresh  eggs  to  London  for  elderly  French  governesses. 
Jaunty  must  see  to  it. 

Mr.  Lawrence  thanked  the  small  boy  for  promising  to 
make  inquiries;  in  the  meantime  would  he  accept  a  small 
offering,  a  token  of  ...  Mr.  Lawrence  got  no  further. 
The  boy's  face  from  pink  deepened  to  a  rare  rich  purple. 
The  sight  of  such  gratitude  for  a  benefit  so  small  hurt  Mr. 
Lawrence  so  much  that,  to  escape  further  painful  demon- 
stration, he  hailed  a  passing  taxi  and  jumped  into  it,  little 
knowing  that  on  the  edge  of  the  curb  he  had  left  an  em- 
bryo poulterer  and  fishmonger,  whose  world  had  become  all 
of  a  moment  a  bottomless  pit  of  blackest  despair.  The 
small  trusting  poulterer  had  been  robbed  of  his  basket, 
and  so  cleverly  too.  The  twins  had  been  nothing  to  this. 
There  was  no  actual  disgrace  attached  to  their  appearance 
— in  fact  the  doctor  had  gone  so  far  as  to  congratulate  the 
mother;  but  the  disappearance  of  twin  fowls!  The  ruin 
of  his  whole  life  stared  him  in  the  face.  Position — career 
— character — honour — one  pound  of  butter — and  a  cream 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  SI 

cheese — all  gone  at  one  fell  swoop — and  he  so  knowing  as 
to  have  been  worth  a  rise  at  the  first  six  months.  He  could 
hear  his  poor  mother  saying  it  "acrost  the  twins"  to  a 
sympathetic  neighbour.  The  poor  little  twins  would  be 
carried  away  on  the  flood  of  their  mother's  tears  after  this. 

The  taxi  bore  Mr.  Lawrence  and  the  basket  away,  and 
when  the  taxi  stopped  Mr.  Lawrence  jumped  out,  over- 
paid the  driver,  and  began  to  read  with  eagerness  the 
legend  engraven  upon  the  brass  plate  on  the  door  of  the 
unhomey-looking  house.  It  ran,  "Home  for  Aged  Foreign 
Governesses.  Supported  by  voluntary  contributions." 

He  knocked  at  the  door  and  waited.  Some  time.  Then 
the  door  was  opened  slowly  and  round  it  peeped  a  small 
girl  wearing  a  cap  the  size  of  a  walnut  shell — and  only 
half  of  that.  Pertly  she  asked  Mr.  Lawrence's  business; 
politely  he  said  he  wanted  to  see  a  very  old  lady — if  such 
a  thing  existed?  If  she  was  in  bed  it  didn't  matter.  He 
meant  that  if  she  were  in  bed  it  would  show  she  was  in 
that  state  of  health  in  which  he  hoped  to  find  her.  He  was 
involved — but  did  the  small  girl  understand? 

The  small  girl  had  never  before  been  credited  with  the 
gift  of  understanding — not  even  with  the  power  to  under- 
stand— so  she  put  her  tongue  in  her  cheek,  blushed,  told 
Mr.  Lawrence  to  "Garn !"  and  kicked  open  a  door  on  the 
left  of  the  passage.  Then  she  asked  the  gentleman  to  wait 
while  she  called  Madame.  She  had  never  before  been  so 
polite,  nor  had  she  ever  felt  such  a  fool.  She  had  sur- 
prised herself  and  it  is  always  upsetting  to  do  that.  We 
should  at  least  be  able  to  depend  upon  ourselves  not  to  be 
politer  than  we  want  to  be. 

Mr.  Lawrence  walked  into  the  room  and  found  himself 
in  the  very  heart  of  the  home  for  aged  governesses.  But 
where  was  the  home?  He  couldn't  find  it  in  the  horsehair- 
covered  sofas  and  chairs,  nor  in  the  linoleum-covered  floor, 
nor  in  the  dusty  leaves  of  an  indiarubber  plant  which  stood 
in  a  cardboard  waste-paper  basket.  The  leaves  of  the 
plant  were  dusted  just  so  far  up  as  the  tallest  of  the  most 


32  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

conscientious  of  the  aged  governesses  could  reach.  Per- 
haps the  chairs  were  too  slippery  to  stand  upon.  He  would 
try!  He  was  trying,  perilously  balanced,  when  the  door 
opened  and  into  the  room  came  a  fierce-looking  woman. 
Perhaps  she  had  every  right  to  look  fierce.  It  depended 
largely  on  what  message  the  small  girl  had  given  and  how 
she  had  given  it.  Anyhow  the  fierce  woman  cannot  have 
been  used  to  finding  a  tall  Daddy  Long  Legs  standing  on 
her  chair,  trying  to  measure  his  height  by  a  comparatively 
small  indiarubber  plant.  Mr.  Lawrence  got  down  and, 
apologising  to  Madame,  tried  to  explain  his  position,  and 
failing — for  the  want  of  a  sympathetic  listener — said  quite 
simply  that  he  had  come  to  ask  if  Madame  could  find  him 
such  a  thing  as  an  elderly  lady — a  governess  for  instance 
— past  work? 

If  Panslea  could  have  heard  him ! 

Madame  folded  her  arms  and,  smiling  grimly,  owned  to 
the  guardianship  of  ten  old  ladies — elderly  ladies — answer- 
ing to  the  description.  "But  none,  Monsieur,  are  luna- 
tics." 

She  rose  to  her  extreme  height  as  she  made  this  im- 
mense pronouncement  and  Mr.  Lawrence  said  they  need 
not  be  that.  He  wanted  a  great  talker,  that  was  all.  Had 
Madame  such  a  thing? 

Most  assuredly  she  had,  and  the  greatest  talker  was  the 
most  bedridden;  quite  healthy,  she  was,  but  partially 
paralysed — all  her  strength  having  gone  into  her  tongue. 

Was  it  by  chance  a  French  tongue?  asked  Mr.  Lawrence 
eagerly — that  was  the  point. 

It  was  Parisian!  Immensely  cheered,  Mr.  Lawrence 
asked  if  it  were  possible  to  see  the  lady?  She  seemed  so 
exactly  what  he  wanted. 

Madame,  narrowing  her  eyes,  said,  Did  Monsieur  not 
generally  get  what  he  wanted?  Then  she  hurriedly  added 
that  if  it  should  chance  to  be  the  partially-paralysed, 
partially-bedridden  lady's  sofa  day,  there  could  be  no  moral 
objection. 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  38 

A  sofa  day  it  proved  to  be  and  Mr.  Lawrence  was  asked 
to  go  up. 

He  went  up  and  was  shown  into  a  very  small  room, 
where  on  a  very  small  sofa  lay  a  very  small  woman,  with 
a  whole  world  of  things  in  her  wonderful  eyes. 

"Queek,  Monsieur/'  she  cried,  "ah,  is  it  that  my  sister  is 
found?" 

Mr.  Lawrence  drew  a  chair  to  her  sofa-side  and  sitting 
down  broke  to  her  gently  that,  so  far  as  he  knew,  her  sister 
was  not  found.  She  might  be,  of  course  probably  was; 
but  it  had  not  been  his  great  good  fortune  to  have  found 
her.  And  the  poor  little  Mademoiselle,  who  could  not  think 
for  what  reason  a  man  should  come  if  he  had  not  found  her 
sister,  disappointed  and  brokenhearted,  closed  her  eyes.  It 
was  only  then  Mr.  Lawrence  realised  how  poor  a  place  the 
room  was.  It  seemed  when  he  came  into  it  full  of  sunshine. 

He  looked  at  Mademoiselle  wondering  what  he  could 
say  to  comfort  this  stricken  mortal,  when  the  door  opened 
and  Madame  entered  bringing  the  basket  of  Monsieur  that 
he  had  left  in  the  taxi.  "It  is  Monsieur's?"  she  asked. 

"Oui,  non,  ya,  yes,  wait!     What  shall  I  do?" 

"The  man  waits,"  said  Madame,  "while  he  waits — tick 
goes  the  money." 

Mr.  Lawrence  gave  Madame  two  shillings  to  give  the 
taxi-man  as  a  reward  for  bringing  back  a  basket  which 
didn't  belong  to  him,  and  certainly  didn't  belong  to  the 
fare — and  yet  the  fare  remembered  vaguely  the  feeling  of 
a  basket  on  his  arm;  just  as  at  a  Christmas  party  the 
happy  grown-up  feels  the  paper  cap  on  his  head  long 
after  it  is  torn  and  trampled  under  foot.  So  the  fare 
placed  the  basket  beside  him  and  turned  to  Mademoiselle. 

"To  go  back  to  what  I  was  saying — I  am  sorry  I  have 
not  found  your  dear  sister;  but  what  would  you  say  if  I 
told  you  I  had  found  you  a  home — in  which  you  can  stay, 
cared  for,  until  your  sister  is  found?  Could  you  leave 
this?" 

He  looked  round  the  room.     It  seemed  pathetically  pos- 


34  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

sible  that  she  might  be  glad  to  leave  it,  if  an  ambulance 
were  procured.  Yes,  she  could  leave.  There  was  no  diffi- 
culty, no  real  difficulty.  Her  little  bird  only  could  she  not 
leave.  The  little  bird  should  come?  Yes — Mr.  Lawrence 
promised  that. 

Then  he  told  Mademoiselle  of  his  wife's  death,  of  his 
children.  Of  Sally  who  didn't  know  French  as  Panslea 
thought  she  should  know  it. 

"Pans — lee?"  asked  Mademoiselle.  "It  is  perhaps  a 
person?" 

"No,  it's  a  village.  It  consists  of  many  persons,  all  bent 
on  the  same  thing — looking  after  me  and  my  children — 
whereas  Jaunty  .  .  ." 

"Jauntee — that  too,  it  is  a  place?" 

"No,  that's  a  person.  .  .  ." 

"Panslee — Jauntee  .  .  ."  murmured  Mademoiselle. 

Mr.  Lawrence  said  that  was  right;  if  she  could  master 
those  two  it  was  all  that  was  necessary.  But  would  she 
come  and  teach  Sally?  What  after  all  was  there  to  pre- 
vent French  being  taught  equally  well  from  a  bed  or  sofa 
as  from  a  chair?  But  there  was  a  difficulty.  He  ad- 
mitted it! 

The  light  died  out  of  the  eyes  of  the  little  Mademoiselle. 
What  if  this  like  all  her  dreams  should  end  in  waking? 

"Monsieur?"  she  whispered. 

"Money,  Mademoiselle.  ...  I  am  not  in  a  position  to 
offer  you  what  you  with  your  experience  have  every  right 
to  ask.  But  if  you  think  there  are  things  in  life  that  money 
cannot  buy — then  you  may  find  them  in  a  home 
where  .  .  ." 

"Money?"  exclaimed  Mademoiselle,  clasping  her  thin 
hands;  "what  is  that  to  a  home,  to  affection,  to  a  Monsieur 
with  eyes  so  kind — to  a  young  and  beautiful  child  who  will 
perhaps  one  day  love  me  and,  perhaps,  another  day,  will 
kiss  me." 

Here  was  Mr.  Lawrence  on  safe  ground.  He  assured 
her  that  would  come  at  the  very  beginning  of  things.  It 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  85 

was  a  habit  of  Sally.  It  was  as  natural  to  Sally  as  sleep- 
ing and  eating — as  natural  to  Sally  as  singing  was  to 
birds.  So  in  whispers  the  money  difficulty  was  discussed, 
until  in  whispers  it  died  away.  It  was  arranged  that  so 
soon  as  it  could  be  managed  Mademoiselle  and  her  little 
bird  should  set  forth,  and  Mademoiselle  was  to  promise 
to  talk— talk— talk! 

Now  it  was  as  natural  to  Mademoiselle  to  talk  as  it  was 
for  Sally  to  kiss,  and  birds  to  sing;  but  now  she  could  say 
nothing — not  even  promise  to  talk  in  the  future.  For  once 
in  her  life  she  was  tongue-tied.  The  bands  of  happiness 
were  wound  so  tightly  round  her  heart  that  no  words  could 
come,  and  it  was  from  the  heart  that  the  words  should 
have  come. 

Mr.  Lawrence  went  and  as  he  went  he  shook  his  shoul- 
ders as  though  he  were  relieved  of  a  burden,  as  indeed  he 
was.  How  easily  things  could  be  done  if  only  people 
would  be  perfectly  natural  and  say  exactly  what  they 
wanted.  People  didn't  go  the  right  way  to  work.  Youth 
was  necessarily  expensive,  but  the  old  could  be  had  for  the 
asking.  The  pity  of  it !  It  was  profoundly  sad. 

Mr.  Lawrence  was  in  the  hall.  "Monsieur,  your  basket," 
sang  a  voice  from  above,  and  there  on  the  stairs  stood 
Madame,  on  her  arm  the  basket.  At  that  same  moment 
there  was  a  violent  ring  at  the  doorbell.  Mr.  Lawrence 
being  nearest  the  door  opened  it,  felt  a  sharp  pinch,  and 
found  his  arm  in  the  grasp  of  a  tiny  grip.  He  was  looking 
down  into  the  crimson  face  of  a  small  boy  on  the  verge  of 
an  apoplectic  fit.  The  small  boy  was  accompanied  by  a 
young  woman  flushed  with  the  excitement  of  defending 
in j  ured  innocence. 

There  is  nothing  that  so  thoroughly  enthuses  the  truly 
feminine  mind  as  an  imaginary  injustice  perpetrated  upon 
a  person  quite  unknown  to  her  under  circumstances  of 
which  she  knows  nothing.  Mr.  Lawrence  recognised  femi- 
nine enthusiasm  running  riot  even  quicker  than  he  recog- 
nised the  embryo  poulterer. 


36  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

The  small  boy  demanded  the  immediate  return  of  his 
basket,  and  his  champion  was  about  to  tell  Mr.  Lawrence 
what  she  thought  of  him  when  the  fire  of  enthusiasm  flick- 
ered out.  She  had  met  the  kindly  eyes  of  Sally's  father. 
Now  there  are  women  who  know  at  a  glance  what  kind  of 
a  man  a  man  is,  and  Janet  Mason  was  one  of  them.  It 
had  to  do,  she  said,  with  a  look  in  the  eyes.  She  found  in 
this  man's  eyes  the  look  that  of  all  looks  was  the  one  she 
liked  best  and  trusted  most,  and  she  knew  she  had  mis- 
judged him. 

"You've  made  a  mistake,"  she  said,  pulling  at  the  small 
boy's  coat. 

Mr.  Lawrence  said,  No,  he  had  made  the  mistake,  not 
the  boy. 

"She  heard  you  give  the  address,  she  did,"  cried  the 
small  boy  triumphantly,  choking  with  emotion.  "We  went 
wrong,  but  still  she  heard  it  all  right." 

"I  cannot  thank  her  enough,"  said  Mr.  Lawrence.  "You 
cannot  imagine  my  feelings  when  the  taxi-man  returned 
with  a  basket  that  didn't  belong  to  me,  that  he  swore  I 
had  left  in  the  cab,  a  basket  I  didn't  know  existed." 

The  small  boy  whistled.  That  was  a  bit  thick.  "And 
you  left  it  in  the  cab?"  he  exclaimed.  "My  word,  those 
chickens  will  know  their  wye  abaht  town — won't  they 
just?" 

Meanwhile  the  taxi  was  ticking  twopences.  Mr.  Law- 
rence suggested  they  should  be  paid.  The  small  boy  pro- 
duced the  coin  Mr.  Lawrence  had  so  lately  given  him,  and 
Mr.  Lawrence  promptly  produced  another  exactly  like  it, 
its  very  double.  Then  he  said,  Why  didn't  the  small  boy 
and  his  champion  take  the  cab  back?  The  chickens  would 
be  late  for  dinner. 

Then  it  was  that  the  small  boy,  in  a  whisper,  suggested 
to  his  champion  looking  into  the  basket. 

The  champion  said  it  was  impossible.  She  turned  her 
pink  face  to  Mr.  Lawrence  and  implored  his  forgiveness. 
He  begged  her  not  to  do  that.  Of  course  the  poulterer  was 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  37 

right.  It  was  only  business  after  all.  The  boy  was  justi- 
fied in  thinking  anything.  .  .  .  But  when  pressed  to  look 
the  boy  drew  back.  He  wouldn't.  It  was  all  right !  His 
mistake !  No  harm  meant !  Here  Madame  shut  the  door. 
Inside  the  hall  she  stood  for  a  moment  biting  her  lip;  then 
she  blew  her  nose  and  said,  "Mon  Dieu !" 

As  he  walked  away  Mr.  Lawrence  remembered  the 
champion's  nice  face.  Not  a  pretty  face,  but  fresh  and 
charming!  He  wondered  if  there  was  anything  she  could 
have  taught  Sally;  but  she  was  too  young.  He  wished  he 
had  asked  her  name.  (He  little  thought  she  was  coming  to 
Panslea.) 

Janet  Mason  on  her  part  wished  she  knew  his  name.  It 
was  extraordinary  that  any  man  could  take  a  basket  with- 
out knowing  it,  and  lose  it  without  knowing  it.  (If  she 
had  been  to  Panslea  she  wouldn't  have  been  surprised  at  a 
little  thing  like  that.)  Even  her  brother,  who  knew  most 
things  and  a  vast  number  of  men,  didn't  recognise  this  one 
from  Janet's  description.  He  agreed  that  he  didn't  sound 
like  a  man  who  would  steal  anything  from  a  child;  but 
women  were  poor  judges  of  men.  .  .  . 

"But  if  you  had  seen  his  eyes,"  pleaded  Janet. 

"My  dear  child,  the  only  man  I  know  answering  to  the 
description  is  John  Lawrence.  But  it  couldn't  be  .  .  ." 

"Why  not?"  asked  Janet,  grasping  at  straws. 

"Because  if  it  were,  you  have  left  out  the  most  important 
thing  of  all.  You  don't  say  he  adopted  the  small  poulterer, 
which  he  most  certainly  would  have  done,  and  you  don't 
say  he  gave  the  basket  to  the  first  beggar  he  met,  which  he 
more  certainly  would  have  done." 

Mr.  Lawrence  may  not  have  done  all  the  things  he  might 
have  done;  but  he  did  what  he  went  to  London  to  do,  and 
that  was  to  get  a  French  governess  for  Sally. 

That's  how  Mademoiselle  came  to  Panslea,  and  it  was 
as  good  a  way  as  any  other.  She  came  to  look  after  Sally, 
and  Sally  needed  it.  There  was  only,  besides  every  one 
in  the  village,  Jaunty  to  do  it,  and  Anne  Beech.  But  Anne 


38  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

was  doing  it  for  Jimmy,  and  all  he  asked  was  that  Sally 
should  remain  unchanged,  whereas  the  whole  village  was 
trying  to  improve  her,  although  every  single  soul  in  it,  if 
pressed,  would  have  admitted  there  was  little  room  for  it. 

When  Mademoiselle  arrived  at  the  Lawrences  she  was 
put  into  a  bedroom  whose  windows  looked  out  over  the 
garden  and  far  away  to  the  low  blue  hills.  There  were 
flowers  peeping  in  at  the  windows — inquisitive  red  japoni- 
cas — to  see  what  sort  of  a  governess  she  was  who  had  come 
to  teach  their  sister  a  strange  language.  She  looked  tired, 
poor  thing,  and  pale,  not  one  of  their  family,  and  they 
called  to  the  white  lilies  below  to  come  up  and  look.  But 
the  lilies  were  shy;  they  couldn't  speak  any  but  their  own 
language,  and  that  best  at  night;  so  they  wouldn't  come. 
They  would  waft  a  message  by  moonlight  to  their  tired 
sister. 

There  were  flowers  on  the  table  at  Mademoiselle's  bed- 
side, and  in  her  heart  a  wonderful  peace.  She  closed  her 
eyes  because  they  ached  from  looking  at  things  so  beauti- 
ful. She  must  grow  accustomed  to  them  by  degrees.  When 
she  opened  them  again  they  looked  upon  an  old  man  who 
stood  at  the  end  of  the  bed.  To  this  she  could  never  grow 
accustomed. 

"Monsieur?"  she  murmured,  frightened.  He  was  strug- 
gling with  some  suppressed  emotion,  the  force  of  which 
shook  him. 

"You  .  .  .  vous  .  .  ."  she  hesitated.  The  old  man  took 
one  step  forward  and  said  hurriedly,  passion  urging  him 
on,  "You  no  telly  naughty  Frenchy  things  my  Miss  Sally 
.  .  .  she  know  nothing  .  .  .  more  than  the  lilies  of  the 
field  .  .  .  she  an  angel  baby.  .  .  ." 

"Mon  cher !"  ej  aculated  the  amazed  Mademoiselle,  "what 
would  you?  She  is  an  angel  child  .  .  .  that  can  I  see  .  .  . 
a  beautiful  .  .  .  child." 

And  Jaunty  because  of  the  tears  in  Mademoiselle's  eyes 
was  humbled  and  begged  forgiveness.  He  explained  it 
was  only  because  he  was  so  anxious — Aldershot  on  one 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  39 

side — London  on  the  other — and  Mr.  Lawrence  not  realis- 
ing the  danger  of  either. 

Mademoiselle  realised  the  old  man's  distress.  It  was 
enough. 

"We  are  friends?"  she  asked,  holding  out  her  hand,  and 
Jaunty  in  the  circumstances  felt  he  must  decline  the  hand; 
but  promised  to  think  about  the  friendship.  He  had  never 
yet  met  a  foreigner  up  and  about  he  could  trust;  it  wasn't 
likely  he  would  make  advances  to  one  in  bed,  especially  as 
the  paralysis  was  probably  assumed  for  purposes  of  her 
own.  piN.1  * 

It  was  not  only  French  stories  Jaunty  feared  his  young 
ladies  should  hear.  English  stories  were  dangerous 
enough.  And  the  man  who  told  the  worst  of  them  was  a 
certain  friend  of  Mr.  Lawrence,  one  Jameson  by  name, 
who  once  a  year  paid  a  visit  to  Panslea,  and  during  the 
visit  Jaunty  was  troubled,  although  he  liked  Mr.  Jameson 
well  enough.  But  it  was  best  to  be  on  the  safe  side  and 
he  never  left  the  dining-room  when  Mr.  Jameson  was 
there,  and  Mr.  Jameson  knew  why.  When  he  arrived  to 
stay,  Jaunty  would  take  him  to  his  room,  would  unpack 
for  him,  and  would  invariably  say,  "You  will  be  careful, 
sir?" 

"Of  course,  of  course,  Jaunty.  If  you  think  I'm  verg- 
ing .  .  .  you  know,  just  hand  me  the  bread  or  something." 

And  Jaunty  would  agree. 

Then  at  dinner  this  would  happen.  Mr.  Jameson  would 
say,  "John,  did  I  ever  tell  you  the  story  of  the  two  men 
who  went  duck-shooting?"  Pamela  would  look  at  Sally^ 
Sally  at  Pamela;  both  at  Jaunty.  Jaunty  would  hand  the 
bread  to  Mr.  Jameson  who  would  take  a  slice.  The  girls 
would  say,  "Go  on,"  and  Mr.  Jameson  would  exclaim,  "Oh, 
it's  nothing;  of  course  you  know  it,"  and  all  would  be  well 
until  he  would  say — with  his  eyes  all  alight — "Did  I  ever 
tell  you  the  story  of  the  children's  party?" 

"Bread,   sir?"   Jaunty  would   say  in   his  ear,  and   Mr. 


40  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

Jameson  would  add  another  slice  to  the  pile  in  front  of 
him,  saying  apologetically — 

"Dear,  dear,  I  always  forget  .  .  .  that  is  the  danger  of 
story-telling  .  .  .  one  forgets " 

Mr.  Lawrence  would  be  quite  sure  he  had  never  heard 
the  stories;  if  he  had  he  would  like  to  hear  them  again. 

"My  dear  John,"  Mr.  Jameson  would  say,  "you  told 
them  to  me  yourself.  But  there  is  a  really  good  one.  .  .  ." 

"The  baker  doesn't  call  again  till  the  day  after  to-mor- 
row," Jaunty  would  whisper. 

That  was  bad  enough,  but  French  stories  told  from  a 
bed,  when  Jaunty  could  not  be  present,  would  be  much 
worse. 

That  the  coming  of  Mademoiselle  was  an  event  in  the 
lives  of  all  in  Panslea  goes  without  saying.  To  many  it 
was  an  excitement,  and  was  talked  of  by  all  for  days,  by 
some  for  days  and  nights.  Lord  Bridlington  went  early  to 
Anne's  cottage.  This,  then,  he  said,  was  the  result  of  the 
meeting.  Anne  thought  the  result  justified  the  meeting. 
She  had  seen  Mademoiselle  and  approved  her  dark  eyes, 
her  tender,  timid  smile.  Anne  had  shown  her  Jimmy's 
photograph,  and  Mademoiselle  had  looked  at  it  long  and 
earnestly,  and  had  said  it  was  such  a  good  face  and  what 
a  good  husband  he  would  some  day  make,  eh?  And  Anne 
found  Mademoiselle  very  sympathetic  and  gifted  with  a 
rare  perception. 

"Of  course,"  said  Anne  to  Lord  Bridlington,  "French  is 
as  easily  taught  from  a  bed  as  from  a  chair." 

"Teh,  tch,"  said  he,  "you've  got  that  from  Lawrence. 
It's  the  kind  of  thing  he  says,  and  of  course  there's  truth 
in  it;  but  the  accent?  Is  it  as  good  lying  down?  I  doubt 
it.  ...  In  any  case  it's  not  the  ordinary  way  of  giving 
French  instruction  and  we  wanted — our  object  was — to 
make  Sally  more  conventional  than  she  is.  I  don't  for  one 
moment  say  that  she  hasn't  a  thousand  charms  other  girls 
don't  possess;  but  she  ought  to  be  more  like  other  people 
than  .  .  .  her  father  is — that's  all !  Now  to  let  you  into  a 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  41 

secret — perhaps  it's  no  secret  to  you — I  should  like  my  boy 
to  marry  Sally.  My  wife  is  all  for  the  boy  marrying  what 
she  calls  'well.'  My  dear,  kind  wife  is  no  good  at  know- 
ing the  real  thing  when  she  sees  it.  She  thinks  she  has  her 
house  full  of  it  every  week-end.  She  never  has.  She 
imagines  because  the  Lawrences  are  poor,  that  they  are 
nobodies,  as  we  were.  Nothing  of  the  sort!  I  tell  her 
none  of  her  friends  will  ever  walk  into  church  as  Mrs. 
Lawrence  walked,  or  as  you  do.  Yes,  I  assure  you.  It's 
not  quite  the  same  thing,  of  course,  but  with  you  it  will 
come!  There!  I've  opened  my  heart  to  you.  You  under- 
stand now  why  I  worry  about  Sally." 

When  Lord  Bridlington  was  gone  down  the  garden  path 
and  had  passed  through  the  gate,  turning  to  wave  as  he 
went,  Anne  walked  to  the  mantelpiece  on  which  stood 
Jimmy's  photograph.  She  moved  it  and  set  it  down  again 
with  care,  smiling  as  she  did  it. 

"Dear  old  thing!"  she  said,  "they  shan't,"  and  Jimmy 
smiled  at  her  in  his  happy,  confident  way,  as  much  as  to 
say  that  he  trusted  the  jolly  old  world  to  go  on  treating 
him  as  it  had  always  treated  him. 


IV 


WHEN  it  was  suggested  by  those  least  concerned  in  the 
matter  that  Janet  should  live  with  her  brother  Michael  and 
keep  house  for  him — or  rooms,  rather — brother  Michael, 
most  concerned  in  the  matter,  demurred.  Janet  very  nat- 
urally asked  him  why  he  didn't  want  his  own  sister  to  live 
with  him?  Now  it  was  some  one  else's  sister  he  would 
have  chosen,  not  his  own,  and  in  that  was  he  singular  ? 

"Well,  my  own  sister,  it's  like  this."  He  lit  his  pipe  and 
stretching  out  his  long  legs  over  almost  the  entire  floor 
space  of  his  ridiculously  small  sitting-room,  repeated,  "It's 
like  this  .  .  ." 

"Like  what?"  insisted  Janet. 

Michael  pulled  at  his  pipe  and  thought,  choosing  his 
words  carefully  in  consideration  of  those  feelings  whose 
very  existence  Janet  would  have  denied.  She  was  far  too 
sensible  to  have  feelings. 

"It's  like  this,"  he  ventured  at  last,  "you  would  always 
be  trying  to  make  me  do  noble  things.  You  would  try  to 
make  a  man  of  me — your  sort  of  man.  You  would  love 
to  see  me  doing  strenuous,  splendidly  uncomfortable,  mar- 
tyrable  things.  You  would  like  to  see  me  walking  home 
on  a  wet  night  to  save  the  shilling  I  haven't  got  (so  why 
shouldn't  the  wretched  taxi-driver  have  it?) — but  that's  a 
detail !  You  would  make  me  marry  in  order  that  you  might 
look  after  my  children.  They  would  have  adenoids  so 
that  you  might  make  paper  toys  for  them  during  their 
fretful  convalescence.  You  would  choose  me  a  weak,  back- 
boneless  wife  so  that  in  caring  for  her  I  might  become  un- 
selfish— I  know  you!  You  would  mend  my  socks.  Now  I 
would  rather  you  left  them  to  Mrs.  Platt,  who  has  mended 
them  indifferently  well  for  a  greater  number  of  years  than 

42 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  43 

I  can  think  of  without  emotion.  I  could  not  deprive  her 
of  the  honour,  besides  I  have  given  her  a  glass  egg  and  a 
pair  of  spectacles  for  the  express  purpose  of  sock-darning. 
She  has  mislaid  the  egg,  I  admit,  so  it's  capital  lying  idle, 
as  it  were.  She  says  in  any  case  it  was  waste  buying 
them  things,  because  she  only  darns  on  Tuesdays.  If  I 
hole  out  on  a  Wednesday  I  must  wait  till  the  following 
Tuesday." 

Janet  meekly  said  she  would  darn  on  any  day,  and  all 
day  if  Michael  liked,  and  Michael  said  she  had  no  sense  of 
humour. 

Janet  said  in  that  respect  it  seemed  she  was  unique. 
Every  one  she  knew  had  an  exquisite  sense  of  humour,  at 
least  they  said  so;  it  was  strange  she  should  be  the  only 
person  without  it.  She  then  asked  Michael  what  she  should 
do?  Her  life  seemed  wasted  if  she  couldn't  look  after  him. 
Michael  suggested  she  might  be  a  real  friend  to  people  in 
distress.  She  asked  what  a  real  friend  was.  "Think!"  he 
said.  And  Janet  thought  and  while  she  thought  he  dozed, 
and  while  he  dozed  her  thoughts  concluded  on  these  lines. 
As  there  are  pears  and  pears,  so  are  there  friends  and 
friends.  There  is  the  friend  who  asks  for  stamps  and  in 
poor  exchange  leaves  on  one's  writing  table  a  pile  of  pen- 
nies. There  is  on  the  other  hand  the  friend  who  takes 
stamps  and  gives  nothing  in  exchange.  That  is  the  real 
friend  who  never  changes.  There  is  the  friend  who  in 
exchange  gives  .  .  .  stamps.  Friends  of  that  kind  die 
young  or  their  sisters  marry  Cabinet  Ministers. 

"Michael,"  said  Janet,  "I  believe  I've  got  a  sense  of 
humour  after  all.  I've  thought  of  some  funny  things  about 
friends." 

"They  are  funny  things,  Jane — couldn't  help  yourself. 
Try  again." 

"Shall  we  review  our  financial  position,  then?"  she  sug- 
gested, not  without  humour  if  she  had  but  had  the  sense  to 
see  it.  It  woke  him  up  as  nothing  else  could  have  done. 
He  emptied  his  pockets  and  piled  their  contents  on  the 


44  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

top  of  his  bank  book,  which  happened  to  be  lying  on  the 
table. 

Carefully  Janet  drew  the  book  towards  her,  the  green- 
and-black  felt  tablecloth  with  it.  That  she  tidied.  A 
glance  inside  the  book  revealed  all  it  knew  of  balance. 
Blushing,  she  closed  it,  and  felt  as  if  she  had  been  listen- 
ing at  a  door.  She  wondered  why  Michael  spent  so  much 
and  had  so  little  to  show  for  it.  Janet's  idea  of  much  was 
little.  The  woman  who  lives,  from  choice,  on  buns  and 
cocoa,  partaken  of  at  odd  moments,  is  always  of  a  saving 
nature,  although  she  may,  in  some  respects,  be  of  a  gener- 
ous one. 

Then  Janet  hummed  and  hawed  and  suggested  if  her 
income  were  put  to  his  it  would  make  enough  for  two  to 
live  comfortably — in  a  flat — with  two  servants.  .  .  . 

"Janet !"  said  Michael,  putting  his  hands  to  his  ears. 

"Michael,"  gasped  Janet,  "what  is  it?" 

"The  two  servants,  I  think,  but  I'm  not  sure.  I  thought 
you  were  going  to  say  ten — why  two?" 

"Michael!" 

"Yes?" 

"You  have  no  ulterior  motive  in  wishing  to  get  rid  of 
me?" 

Michael  said  if  by  ulterior  motive  she  meant  a  possible 
wife — none  existed,  not  even  the  skeleton  of  one  in  the 
cupboard,  but  he  wanted  Janet  to  enjoy  herself.  If  en- 
joyment lay  in  interfering  with  other  people's  business, 
she  must  go  where  people  had  business;  there  was  none  on 
the  Stock  Exchange  at  the  moment. 

"Poor  Michael!"  said  Janet. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  he.  "I  cannot  see  you  spending  your 
patrimony  on  clothes,  nor  can  I  see  you  secretary  to  a 
canine  defence  committee." 

"Is  there  such  a  thing?"  she  asked,  alert.  To  this  Mi- 
chael paid  no  attention. 

"I  cannot  imagine  you  leading  a  life  of  luxurious  idle- 
ness, taking  a  one-horse  brougham  by  the  hour,  or  a  taxi 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  45 

even !  If  you  lived  in  the  country  you  couldn't  supply  your 
London  friends  with  eggs,  because  you  have  no  London 
friends,  and  if  you  had,  hens  wouldn't  lay  eggs  at  those 
times  when  your  London  friends  most  needed  them.  Lon- 
don people  and  country  hens  have  never  arrived  at  an 
understanding,  and  they  never  will.  And  it  isn't  the  fault 
of  the  government.  You  would  never  order  one  of  your 
darling  chickens  to  be  killed;  nor  would  you  net  your  fruit 
trees;  and  that  belief  of  yours  in  the  worm  that  lies  curled 
in  every  bud  the  bullfinch  eats  simply  won't  work — in 
gardens." 

"I'm  an  awful  idiot,  Michael,"  said  Janet  plaintively, 
and  Michael  put  out  his  hand.  Janet  took  it  and  squeezed 
it. 

"Not  so  hard,  Jane;  it's  this  clawing  emotion  I  dread. 
You  must  practise  a  quiet  reserve  and  not  behave  like  an 
affectionate  retriever.  It's  neither  sporting  nor  is  it  good 
manners  to  give  your  paw  at  every  odd  moment,  but  you're 
rather  a  dear.  .  .  .I'd  mow  your  lawn  for  you  every  Sun- 
day morning  if  you  lived  in  the  country,"  and  so  ended 
their  talk,  as  all  their  talks  ended,  at  least  those  Janet 
sought  to  make  serious. 

She  walked  to  the  window  and  looked  out  over  a  green 
tub  on  to  the  Westminster  Square,  which  gave  Michael  his 
interesting  address  at  a  very  moderate  cost.  She  was 
staying  with  him.  There  was  something  rather  pathetic 
in  the  patient  back  she  presented  to  Michael — a  gentle 
resignation  expressed  in  the  long  neck,  which  suggested  to 
him  a  tall  wax  candle  on  the  altar  of  a  Roman  cathedral, 
and  for  some  reason  or  other,  besides  appealing  to  his  pity, 
awakened  within  him  the  pangs  of  hunger. 

"Let's  dine,  Jane,"  he  said,  and  they  dined  as  he  loved 
to  dine,  in  a  small  Italian  restaurant,  Soho  way. 

The  change  which  had  been  restored  to  his  pocket  should 
pay  for  the  dinner  and  promised  to  go  so  far  as  to  pay  for 
the  coffee.  If  not,  Janet  would  pay  for  that;  but  Michael 
said  "No." 


46  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

Now  it  is  here  that  Panslea  comes  in,  or  rather  a  bit  of 
it,  in  the  shape  of  the  loveliest  girl  Janet  had  ever  seen. 
And  on  that  bit  of  Panslea  her  attention  was  riveted  during 
dinner.  Now  Michael  knew  by  experience  the  kind  of 
girl  Janet  was  accustomed  to  call  the  loveliest  she  had 
ever  seen.  She  had  been  at  school  with  three  of  them.  So 
he  refused  to  turn  round. 

"She  hates  the  man  she's  with,  Michael,  or  likes  him  too 
much." 

"Hors  d'ffiuvres,  Jane?" 

"No.  .  .  .  Michael!  I  believe  he's  trying  to  make  love 
to  her;  of  course  I  may  be  wrong." 

"But  not  so  wrong  as  he  is. — Soup?" 

"No."  Janet  was  too  busy  staring  to  eat.  Michael 
suggested  she  should  stare  less  and  eat  more. 

"She's  got  a  face  the  size  of  your  hand,  and  eyes  as  big 
as  teaspoons,  and  .  .  ." 

"No  nose  to  speak  of,  I  suppose?" 

"Please  don't  joke;  it's  serious,  she's  so  pretty." 

"Oh,  only  pretty?     How  quickly  she's  gone  off." 

By  the  end  of  dinner  Michael,  exasperated,  turned — 
looked — and  turned  again  quickly.  He  told  Janet  to  come, 
to  hurry  up.  And  she  went  without  her  coffee,  which  she 
had  been  prepared  to  pay  for. 

Michael  hurried  down  the  stairs  before  her,  and  on  the 
landing  stepped  back  to  let  an  old  man  pass.  Then  step- 
ping forward  he  barred  the  old  man's  way. 

"Jaunty,  by  all  that's  wonderful!"  he  exclaimed,  and 
the  old  man  looked  at  Michael,  but  was  too  breathless  to 
speak,  so  Michael  spoke,  and  in  these  strange  words — • 
strange  to  Janet. 

"Over  there  against  the  wall — you'll  take  her  back?" 

The  old  man  said  he  would  take  her  back. 

"You  can;  you  have  the  authority?" 

"Her  mother's  authority,  sir." 

Janet  couldn't  understand  the  look  that  came  over  Mi- 
chael's face.  If  it  was  because  the  waiter  was  there  de- 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  47 

manding  payment  he  needn't  have  minded,  the  waiter  must 
know  he  had  only  forgotten. 

"You  look  so  queer,  Michael,  what's  the  matter?"  she 
asked,  and  he  said  there  was  nothing  the  matter,  and  he 
was  cross  all  the  way  home. 

As  they  walked  down  Shaftesbury  Avenue  a  banana  skin 
thrown  from  a  window  above  hit  his  hat,  and  he  didn't 
know  it.  Then  it  struck  Janet  forcibly — the  thought,  not 
the  banana  skin — that  Michael  was  right:  she  could  never 
live  with  a  man  who  didn't  know  when  he  was  hit  by  a 
banana  skin.  That  kind  of  sense  of  humour  she  could 
never  develop.  If  anything  struck  her  she  noticed  it  at 
once,  and  if  it  struck  any  one  else  she  laughed — unless  it 
hurt  them,  of  course. 

That  night  Janet  dreamed  of  the  girl,  and  at  breakfast 
next  morning  told  Michael  so,  and  he  said,  "Here  was  a 
case  in  point — why  he  couldn't  have  her  to  live  with  him. 
Breakfast !" 

She  was  very  penitent  and  promised  never  to  mention 
the  girl,  besides  she  wasn't  likely  ever  to  see  her  again. 

"I'm  not  so  sure  about  that,"  said  Michael.  "I'm  going 
away  to-day.  Mrs.  Platt  must  look  after  you." 

But  it  was  Janet  who  looked  after  Mrs.  Platt,  and  Mrs. 
Platt  needed  both  looking  after  and  comforting,  because 
with  tears  and  lamentations  she  declared  her  back  rooms 
to  be  To  Let — the  German  Professor  having  left  without 
paying — and  he  so  fond  of  sausages !  It  was  wonderful 
how  they  ran  up.  There  was  nothing  for  a  kind-hearted 
woman  to  do  but  take  the  rooms,  and  as  Janet  was  that  if 
nothing  else,  she  took  them,  and  Mrs.  Platt  said  she  should 
never  regret  it.  Would  Michael  regret  it?  That  was  the 
question. 

However,  it  was  done,  and  Janet  went  to  the  stores  and 
bought  a  patent  teapot,  and  when  Michael  came  back  the 
next  day  he  had  tea  out  of  the  teapot,  in  Janet's  own 
room,  and  he  found  the  tea  excellent;  although  why  the 
teapot  should  stand  on  its  head  he  could  not  imagine.  Un- 


48  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

less  it  were  from  joy,  and  as  Janet  looked  so  absurdly 
happy  there  was  no  reason  a  teapot  shouldn't  look  absurdly 
happy  too.  There  are  different  ways  of  expressing  joy, 
and  certainly  no  house  that  wasn't  really  happy  would 
have  a  teapot  so  demonstrative.  Janet  said  it  was  because 
the  teapot  stood  that  way  that  the  tea  was  so  good.  And 
he  couldn't  say  it  wasn't.  She  asked  him  if  he  was  sur- 
prised about  the  rooms  and  he  said  nothing  surprised  him 
— and  Janet,  remembering  the  banana  skin,  believed  him. 

Next  morning  Mrs.  Platt  confided  to  Janet  that  she  had 
scraped  a  whole  field  of  mud — sand,  she  meant — off  Mr. 
Mason's  boots.  (It's  here  some  more  of  Panslea  comes  in.) 
Mrs.  Platt  brought  it  wrapped  in  paper  to  Janet's  bedside 
to  prove  the  truth  of  her  statement.  "And  it's  happened 
before,  miss.  When  his  trousers  are  turned  down,  after 
a  day  in  the  country,  there  are  two  little  rings  of  sand  on 
the  floor,  enough  to  cover  the  bottom  of  the  canary's 
cage." 

Janet  said  that  was  a  save,  and  Mrs.  Platt  taking  no  no- 
tice of  the  interruption,  said,  "That's  where  he  goes, 
miss." 

"Where?"  asked  Janet. 

"Well,  not  Essex,  miss." 

"Where  then?" 

"Surrey — that's  what  that  soil  is — sand!  He  doesn't 
throw  sand  in  my  eyes,  that's  all.  And  I  hope  she's  worthy 
of  him,  that's  all  I  say." 

Janet  broke  to  Michael  very  gently  that  she  meant  to  live 
with  him — only  so  far  as  he  wished,  and  until  he  no  longer 
wished  it.  Of  course  breakfast  was  out  of  the  question, 
she  knew  that;  and  even  at  other  meals  there  was  no  rea- 
son she  should  talk. 

"No  reason  but  one,  Jane." 

Janet  had  to  talk  to  some  one,  so  she  asked  Mrs.  Platt 
if  she  was  a  widow,  and  Mrs.  Platt  said — in  a  sense  she 
was.  In  what  particular  sense  Janet  didn't  ask.  Michael 
approved  her  reticence  and  said  he  didn't  want  Mrs.  Platt 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  49 

interfered  with.  She  had  never  asked  him  if  he  had  a  wife, 
therefore  he  had  no  right  to  ask  her  if  she  had  a  husband. 

"But  you  haven't,"  said  Janet. 

"In  a  sense,  no,"  and  Janet  puzzled  over  that  lucid  re- 
mark for  two  days,  then  went  out  and  bought  an  encyclo- 
paedia for  a  shilling,  which  didn't  help  her  in  the  least  and 
only  upset  her  accounts. 

Michael  became  more  silent  every  day.  When  Janet 
spoke  to  him  he  didn't  answer.  That  was  not  unusual;  but 
he  objected  to  her  turning  her  newspaper,  which  was  a 
little  unreasonable,  because  no  woman  can  live  on  births, 
deaths  and  marriages  alone — there  are  always  the  engage- 
ments on  the  inside. 

At  last  Michael  spoke,  and  he  said,  "Janet,  I'm  a  beast, 
but  I'm  in  trouble,"  which  winged  words  flew  straight  into 
her  heart,  and  out  shot  her  hand. 

"If  I  let  you  into  a  great  secret,  Janet,  will  you  keep 
it?" 

"Of  course."    It  was  a  thing  she  longed  to  possess. 

"You're  a  nice  dog,  Jane,  but  a  badly  broken  one,"  and 
she  withdrew  her  hand. 

"Now,  Jane — in  the  country  ..." 

"Sandy  soil?"  she  asked,  anxious  to  understand  what  he 
was  going  to  say  before  he  said  it — a  true  test,  although 
perhaps  not  the  truest. 

"Yes,  but  why  ?  .  .  .  Anyway,  it  is !  Well,  I  want  some 
one  to  look  after  a  girl  I  care  for — well,  love,  if  you  in- 
sist!" 

If  anything  had  insisted,  it  was  Janet's  eyes. 

"She  lives  in  a  village  alone."  (Save  the  mark!  Im- 
agine any  one  in  Panslea  being  alone  for  two  minutes  to- 
gether!) "I  want  you  to  go  and  live  there — to  lodge  in 
the  village  and  just  tell  me  how  she  is  ...  what  she  does. 
If  she  is  happy — why?  If  she  is  unhappy — why?  D'you 
see?" 

Janet  didn't  see,  and  when  she  tried  to  see  by  asking  a 
few  intelligent  questions  directly  bearing  on  the  subject, 


50  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

Michael  went  to  sleep.  But  Janet  had  great  patience.  She 
would  knit  till  he  awoke. 

Michael  in  love!  She  looked  at  him  with  awe  and  rev- 
erence. He  was  jsuch  a  dear,  but  could  he  make  love  as 
she  imagined  men  made  love — as  they  make  it  in  books? 
Would  any  woman  call  him  "Boy,  boy,"  and  what  would 
he  do  if  she  did?  Janet  blushed  for  him.  Would  any 
woman  understand  him?  Would  any  woman,  not  a  sister, 
understand  a  man  who  went  to  sleep  whenever  he  didn't 
want  to  answer  a  question?  What  was  there  about  him 
that  a  woman  could  fall  in  love  with,  especially  that  lovely 
girl  who  had  dined  at  the  restaurant  that  night?  Janet  of 
course  loved  him  for  a  thousand  things  he  had  done  for 
her,  and  had  been  to  her,  since  she  was  a  child — and  then 
she  was  more  or  less  accustomed  to  him,  and  that  helps  so 
with  men.  .  .  . 

"Your  rooms  here,  Jane,  I've  let,"  said  the  waking 
man. 

Janet  sat  up.     "My  rooms?"  she  said. 

"Yes,  to  a  young  man  in  the  Foreign  Office.  He  will 
be  a  companion  for  me  and  he  won't  talk,  because  at  pres- 
ent he  is  terribly  afraid  of  divulging  fearful  State  secrets. 
He  sleeps,  I  am  told,  with  his  door  locked  and  wears  a 
respirator,  as  a  precaution." 

"Is  he  going  to  pay  me  or  you?"  asked  Janet 

"Mercenary  Jane — mercenary  Janetta,"  said  Michael, 
and  he  slept. 

And  Janet  went  on  knitting  until  such  time  as  he  should 
choose  to  awake  and  give  her  Bradshaw  information  as  to 
how  she  should  reach  the  station,  and  from  the  station  how 
she  could  get  to  the  village — and  where,  when  there,  she 
should  lodge. 

"Will  there  be  a  bathroom,  Michael?" 

"My  dearest  Jane,  it's  a  low,  altogether  delightful  Queen 
Anne  house — farmhouse.  Those  delicious  windows,  you 
know!  The  entire  front  of  the  house  is  covered  with  a 
magnificent  vine." 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  51 

"Earwigs,  I  know/'  said  Janet. 

Michael  slept  again,  and  while  he  slept  Janet  turned 
the  heel  of  the  stocking  she  was  knitting  for  him — such  is 
woman. 

"Does  the  farmhouse  woman  know  I'm  coming?"  asked 
Janet,  on  the  chance. 

"She  knows,  and  I  have  every  reason  to  believe  she  will 
be  of  great  service  to  you — in  the  moulding  of  your  char- 
acter, I  mean — so  you  mustn't  try  to  mould  hers,  see?  I 
found  her  possessed  of  a  combination  of  gentleness  and 
grit  quite  remarkable  in  one  of  her  station — in  fact,  she  is 
above  station  of  any  kind.  If  called  upon  to  be  Queen 
to-morrow,  she  would  fill  the  bill — to  perfection;  the  next 
day  a  scullery-maid,  she  would  be  the  best,  most  willing 
scullery-maid  that  ever  scoured  pots  and  pans ;  moreover, 
she  would  be  an  influence  for  good  in  the  house.  She  is, 
in  fact,  a  jewel  of  the  first  water." 

"Will  she  like  me?"  ventured  Janet. 

Michael  said  she  already  did  that. 

"How  d'you  know?" 

"She  told  me  so — and  she  charges  nothing  for  cruets — 
whatever  that  may  be.  So  you  must  eat  sparingly  of 
mustard." 

"You  do  know  what  it  means  then!"  said  Janet. 

Michael  slept. 

"Michael,  you  must  wake  and  tell  me  one  thing — the 
girl  is  lovely?" 

"The  girl?  Pamela  is  lovely  and  Sally  is  not  quite 
lovely;  but  much  more." 

"Is  it  the  lovely  one  or  the  much  more  one?" 

But  this  time  Michael  slept,  and  there  was  no  awaking 
him,  so  Janet  left  him  to  his  dreams  and  she  went  to  hers. 

It  was  Anne  Beech  Janet  was  to  look  after. 

The  whole  village  of  Panslea  was  going  to  be  very  busy 
looking  after  other  people's  business,  and  Jaunty  thought 
the  whole  thing  rested  on  his  shoulders. 

Poor  old  Jaunty !     His  shoulders  were  rounding  beneath 


52  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

the  burden,  and  he  walked  much  slower  than  he  used  to 
walk,  and  there  were  deep  lines  on  his  face  drawn  by  the 
wayward  finger  of  Miss  Pamela,  so  Jaunty  thought.  There 
was  that  dinner  in  London.  He  had  felt  she  would  be  in 
mischief.  He  had  gone  up  to  London  to  see.  By  some 
miraculous  chance,  aided  by  the  intuition  of  Mrs.  Lom- 
bard's footman,  he  had  found  her  and  had  brought  her 
back.  If  he  hadn't  brought  her  back,  what  had  she  meant 
to  do? 


V 


ONE  morning  at  breakfast  Mr.  Lawrence  was  reading  a 
letter.  It  was  a  thing  he  rarely  did.  He  got  Pamela  to  do 
it  for  him,  or  Sally,  or  Jaunty  even;  but  one  marked  "Pri- 
vate and  Immediate"  he  felt  bound  to  read  himself.  He 
read  it  twice,  then  told  Sally  to  get  up  and  walk  to  the 
window. 

"Properly,  Sally.     There — stand  there." 

Sally  stood.     "What's  the  matter?"  she  asked. 

The  matter  was  the  shortness  of  her  skirts.  "Your 
Aunt  Venetia  says  the  shortness  of  your  skirts  has  reached 
London." 

"That's  long  enough,  surely." 

"They  are  too  short,  she  says." 

"Bosh !"  said  Sally,  shortening  them. 

"Wait  a  moment,  darling — you  are  not  a  judge — neither 
perhaps  am  I." 

"Ask  Jaunty,"  suggested  Sally. 

Her  father  jumped  at  it. 

"No,  Daddy  Long  Legs,  don't  be  silly.  Jaunty's  no  good. 
Use  your  own  judgment.  If  you  met  me  out  in  the  road, 
walking,  how  old  should  you  say  I  was?" 

Mr.  Lawrence  pondered.     "Old  enough  to  know  better." 

"No,  seriously,  darling." 

"I  can't  be  serious,  Sally,  if  you  look  like  that." 

Sally  made  an  effort  to  look  otherwise,  and  her  father 
pronounced  her  skirts  too  short.  "Why  not  add  a  fringe?" 
he  suggested. 

"Fringes  are  such  peepy,  kinky  things,"  objected  Sally. 

"Well,  why  not  a  strip  of  those  wavy  things  your  dear 
mother  used  to  make  for  you  when  you  were  babies  ?" 

"Scallops?"  said  Sally,  with  marvellous  intuition. 

53 


54  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

Mr.  Lawrence  supposed  so. 

No,  she  wouldn't  pass  scallops.  There  were  little  kick- 
ups  in  scallops ;  Jaunty  wouldn't  approve. 

"Why  not — a  new  frock?" 

In  a  moment  Sally  was  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  her 
hand  in  his  pocket. 

"No,  it's  not  there;  now  be  good!"  said  her  father. 

"The  question  is,  can  you?  Pamela  having  been  in 
London !" 

"I  might.    What  would  it  cost?     Five  pounds?" 

"My  dear  man,  how  a  good  woman  could  take  you  in? 
Five  shillings,  you  mean!  Why,  it's  cotton  at  six-three — 
five  shillings,  buttons  and  all,  and  Mademoiselle  can  show 
me  how  to  make  it — bien  chic." 

"Well,  send  Jaunty  to  me  after  breakfast  with  my 
cheque-book." 

And  after  breakfast  Jaunty  went  to  the  library,  cheque- 
book in  hand,  and  it  was  he  who  dipped  the  pen  in  the  ink, 
tried  the  nib  on  the  back  of  his  thumb-nail,  and  handed 
the  pen  to  Mr.  Lawrence  with  the  injunction  not  to  press. 
It  was  Jaunty  who  blotted  the  cheque,  who  subtracted  the 
sum  of  the  newly  written  cheque  from  that  on  the  back  of 
the  last  counterfoil,  and  it  was  Jaunty's  face  that  fell. 
It  was  Jaunty  who  said  in  an  aggrieved  voice,  "You've 
been  writing  cheques  without  me,  sir,"  and  Mr.  Lawrence 
admitted  it.  The  corn  merchant's  bill  was  "Account  Ren- 
dered." The  horses  must  be  paid  for. 

"I  had  been  about  that,  sir;  he  would  have  waited  until 
after  Miss  Pamela  ..." 

"No,  no,  Jaunty — I  can't  bear  this  money  business. 
You  can't  make  Miss  Pamela  more  beautiful  than  she  is.  I 
see  nothing  wrong  with  her  clothes.  Nothing!" 

"Our  eyes  are  kinder  than  the  eyes  of  the  outside  world, 
sir.  If  Miss  Pamela  is  to  come  out,  I  am  here  to  see  it  is 
properly  done.  I  have  your  permission,  sir?" 

This  subservience  was  an  afterthought,  and  was  some- 
thing of  an  apology.  Mr.  Lawrence  recognised  the  one  as 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  55 

little  as  he  did  the  other,  and  gave  his  permission — only 
Heaven  and  Jaunty  knew  for  what. 

Then  there  was  the  house  party  to  be  considered,  said 
Jaunty. 

"The  house  party?"  said  Mr.  Lawrence,  puzzled. 

Jaunty  repeated,  "House  party."  It  was  customary,  he 
explained,  to  take  a  party  to  a  dance.  If  not  a  party — Mr. 
Lawrence  might  be  spared  that — there  should  at  least  be 
two  gentlemen. 

"Gentlemen?"  murmured  Mr.  Lawrence. 

"So  called,"  said  Jaunty,  and  hastily  added  that  he 
didn't  mean  that — he  meant  that  it  was  customary  to  speak 
of  them  as  gentlemen  when  used  for  dancing  or  dining 
purposes. 

Mr.  Lawrence  asked  where  Jaunty  got  all  his  social 
knowledge  from;  and  Jaunty  said  there  were  many  ladies 
who  wrote  on  the  subject — and  in  many  cases  were  as 
ignorant  as  he  was — according  to  Mrs.  Lombard.  Then 
Mr.  Lawrence,  with  a  persistence  that  was  foreign  to  his 
nature,  wanted  to  know  where  Jaunty  had  had  the  oppor- 
tunity to  talk  social  etiquette  with  Mrs.  Lombard?  And 
Jaunty  said  he  had  taken  the  opportunity  when  Miss 
Pamela  had  gone  to  London. 

"And  you  found  the  books  wrong.     Poor  Jaunty !" 

Jaunty  said  the  fashion  changed  with  every  season — 
what  was  bad  form  one  season  was  smart  the  next. 

"You  astonish  me,"  said  Mr.  Lawrence,  and  Jaunty  said 
he  was  sorry,  but  he  couldn't  help  it,  some  one  had  to  do  it. 
"The  house  party,  sir?  You  said  you  thought  two  gentle- 
men would  suffice." 

"Did  I?" 

"You  should  know,  sir." 

Mr.  Lawrence  pondered.  "There's  Mr.  Jameson/'  he 
said,  after  careful  deliberation. 

Jaunty  frowned.  It  was  a  question  of  age.  Failing  any 
one  younger,  Mr.  Jameson  must  do.  He  had  the  spon- 
taneous gaiety  of  youth  .  .  . 


56  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

"And  Professor  Forsythe,"  ventured  Mr.  Lawrence,  em- 
boldened by  success. 

"Failing  any  one  older/'  thought  Jaunty  bitterly,  "the 
Professor  must  do,"  but  Jaunty  was  troubled.  He  feared 
the  gibes  of  Miss  Pamela;  but  after  all,  why  should  she 
gibe?  She  must  come  to  it  herself  one  day.  Perhaps  it 
would  not  be  at  age  she  would  scoff,  but  at  age  dancing — 
a  very  different  thing.  But  these  two  gentlemen,  if  they 
danced,  would  dance  for  the  sake  of  Miss  Pamela's 
mother. 

Jaunty  knew  that.  So  Mr.  Jameson  and  the  Professor 
were  bidden,  and  they  promised  to  come,  for  the  sake  of 
the  child's  mother,  just  as  Jaunty  had  known  they  would. 
They  were  nobly  determined  to  see  poor  John  through  this 
great  adventure,  of  launching  on  to  the  troubled  waters  of 
life  this  frail  bark. 

"I  would  suggest  another  word  than  frail,"  said  Mr. 
Jameson,  and  the  Professor  saw  the  necessity. 

Pamela  came  back  from  London  radiant.  Her  aunt 
had  been  very  kind.  She  had  advised  her  about  clothes, 
and  Pamela  had  disregarded  her  advice  and  had  taken  that 
of  a  young  man — who  had  been  attache  in  Vienna,  so  knew. 
The  result  was  charming.  She  had  had  such  a  merry  time. 
She  told  Sally  everything — except — well,  there  was  noth- 
ing to  tell  about  that  dinner.  Sally  had  never  been  to  an 
Italian  restaurant,  so  it  wouldn't  interest  her.  She  didn't 
understand  macaroni  or  Italian — besides,  Pamela  didn't 
want  to  talk  about  it.  She  was  furious  with  Jaunty.  When 
she  came  home  she  ignored  him — as  a  punishment. 

It  wasn't  easy  to  ignore  him.  He  persisted.  She  re- 
fused to  say  what  she  had  bought.  When  he  begged  her 
to  tell  him  if  she  had  chosen  white  for  her  coming-out  ball 
dress  (which  of  course  he  knew  she  must  have  done),  she 
said  she  had  chosen  black.  Jaunty  smiled;  he  knew  that 
wasn't  true.  "The  dress  is  to  come?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  Jaunty,  by  post,  and  you  mustn't  call  it  'dress.'  " 

He   remembered  the  book  had   said  that.      He   didn't 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  57 

mind,  he  should  call  it  "dress,"  and  he  waited  and  watched 
for  the  box.  When  it  did  come,  it  was  so  light  that  he 
was  sure  the  dress  had  been  stolen  on  the  way.  But  the 
postman  reassured  him.  Boxes  were  much  lighter  than 
they  used  to  be,  and  thefts  no  commoner.  But  Jaunty  was 
convinced  the  dress  couldn't  be  decent.  The  postman 
couldn't  say  one  way  or  the  other. 

Pamela  refused  to  be  questioned  or  to  answer.  Jaunty 
told  her  she  would  wrinkle  her  eyes  if  she  laughed  so  much. 
He  went  to  Sally,  but  she  was  sworn  to  secrecy.  There 
remained  but  Matilda,  the  old  maid. 

She  would  be  no  comfort  to  him  at  a  time  like  this; 
often  had  he  repented  getting  her  the  place. 

Then  he  went  to  the  drawer  of  which  he  kept  the  key, 
and  from  a  packet  of  letters  tied  together  he  drew  the  top 
one.  It  was  addressed  to  "My  Pamela,  to  be  given  to  her 
on  the  evening  of  her  first  ball,"  and  Jaunty  looked  and 
looked,  as  if  by  looking  he  could  read  its  contents,  and  at 
last  he  replaced  it.  In  any  case  the  dress  was  bound  to 
be  white,  and  any  slight  alteration  could  be  made  at  the 
last  moment.  He  should  give  the  letter  at  five  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon.  If  it  was  a  matter  of  flowers  he  could  be  up 
at  the  Bridlingtons'  and  back  again  by  dressing.  Jaunty 
could  as  easily  imagine  a  young  lady  coming  out  without 
maidenhair  fern  as  he  could  a  baby  christened  without 
water.  Jaunty  ventured  to  mention  maidenhair  to  Ma- 
tilda and  she  smiled.  She  read  no  books  on  etiquette,  but 
she  knew  better  than  that. 

She  had  no  right  to  smile,  thought  Jaunty  angrily.  What 
was  a  mistake  in  ferns  compared  to  the  mistake  she  had 
made?  Had  she  forgotten  that  cold,  cold  night,  years  ago, 
when  she  had  come  back  disgraced  to  the  house  of  her 
father?  Had  she  forgotten  that  her  father  had  opened  the 
door  to  her  and  had  closed  it  to  her  for  ever?  Out  in  the 
snow,  what  would  she  have  done — she  and  her  baby — if 
Jaunty  hadn't  been  passing — (he  had  been  to  Bridlington 
to  get  maidenhair  for  Mrs.  Lawrence  to  wear) — and  hadn't 


58  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

taken  them  to  the  house  of  a  friend,  and  hadn't  paid  for 
their  shelter,  food  and  lodging?  What  if  he  hadn't  told 
Mrs.  Lawrence  about  Matilda  and  her  baby?  What  if 
Mrs.  Lawrence  hadn't  taken — when  the  poor  baby  died — 
the  poorer  mother  in,  and  made  her  housemaid? 

And  why  did  Matilda  in  time  become  maid?  Only  be- 
cause, when  Mrs.  Lawrence  died,  no  one  else  could  com- 
fort Miss  Sally.  It  was  only  in  Matilda's  arms  that  Sally 
found  rest.  That  was  why  Matilda  had  become  maid — for 
no  other  reason. — Yes,  one,  and  that  because  Nature  had 
given  her  arms  in  which  children  lay  comforted.  That  was 
all!  It  was  none  of  her  own  doing — purely  a  matter  of 
form. 

Jaunty  was  jealous  of  Matilda;  but  he  could  swear  on 
his  honour  that  she  had  never  done  the  young  ladies  any 
harm.  But  why  laugh  when  he  said  maidenhair  fern? 

Matilda  didn't  mean  to  laugh;  but  she  was  surprised 
that  Mr.  Jaunty,  with  his  knowledge,  should  imagine 
maidenhair  in  fashion. 

"And  why  shouldn't  it  be,  Matilda?"  he  asked  testily. 

"You  must  ask  more  than  me,  Mr.  Jaunty,"  said  Matilda. 
"I  know  little  enough  of  fashions.  If  I  am  ever  in  the 
fashion  it  is  because  the  things  have  come  round,  that's 
all — there's  many  a  thing  put  by  that  would  be  the  fashion 
if  it  was  brought  out  to  the  light  after  ..." 

"Then  don't  throw  away  the  young  ladies'  things,  Ma- 
tilda," cautioned  Jaunty  sharply. 

And  Matilda  asked  him  if  he  imagined  the  young  ladies 
would  be  in  Panslea  forty  years  hence  to  wear  the  things  ? 
Matilda  shook  her  head.  "We  shall  be  lucky  if  we  keep 
Miss  Pamela  a  twelvemonth." 

"Lucky?"  queried  Jaunty. 

"Why  not?"  fired  up  Matilda.  "We  have  no  favourites, 
Mr.  Jaunty." 

"Haven't  we?"  he  asked. 

Jaunty  was  upset,  and  he  went  about  other  people's 
business  with  a  face  full  of  trouble  and  perplexity,  and 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  59 

Miss  Sally  danced  and  sang  and  wasn't  in  the  least  a  com- 
fort to  any  one. 

At  five  o'clock  Jaunty  gave  the  sacred  letter  to  Pamela. 

When  she  saw  it  the  colour  drained  from  her  cheeks — 
then  her  lips — leaving  her  a  white,  frightened  child.  Then 
her  eyes  blazed  at  him  and  she  said  he  must  never  do  it 
again,  and  she  thrust  the  letter  into  the  front  of  her  blouse 
and  she  went  away  and  cried  bitterly.  But  that  Jaunty 
didn't  know — or  any  one  else  either — because  Pamela,  like 
the  heroine  of  a  novel,  could  cry  without  showing  it;  where- 
as if  Sally  cried,  all  the  village  knew  it,  and  did  not  rest 
till  they  knew  why. 

(There  were  times  when  Jaunty  did  not  lack  invention, 
say  Mr.  Lawrence  what  he  would.) 

Pamela  dressed  after  dinner.  She  was  a  long  time 
about  it.  Mr.  Lawrence  waited  in  the  hall,  fussing  and 
fuming.  With  him — wondering  at  his  excitement — were 
the  Professor  and  Mr.  Jameson. 

The  Professor's  hair  proclaimed  him  a  man  of  learning; 
the  position  of  his  tie,  under  one  ear,  a  man  of  profound 
learning.  Mr.  Jameson's  clothes  proclaimed  him  no  longer 
a  man  of  fashion;  but  that  he  had  long  ago  been  one  was 
evident  even  to  the  eyes  of  Jaunty.  But  as  a  house  party 
neither  he  nor  the  Professor  were  of  any  use.  Why  couldn't 
they  keep  Mr.  Lawrence  quiet?  Jaunty  could  have  done 
it,  but  he  was  waiting  to  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  his 
young  lady  dressed  for  her  first  ball.  For  this  night  he 
had  waited  years.  For  this  end  he  had  watched  over  her, 
guided  her,  and  guarded  her.  He  thought  of  the  many  good 
shoes  he  had  given  away  because  they  pinched  somewhere, 
and  the  knowledge  that  her  feet  were  beautiful  was  his 
reward. 

At  last  he  heard  voices  in  the  passage  above — Miss 
Pamela's  gay,  then  Miss  Sally's  vowing  Pamela  was  the 
loveliest  thing  ever  seen  since  the  beginning  of  the  world, 
and  Jaunty  whimpered.  There  was  no  one  to  hear,  or  to 
see,  or  to  laugh  at  his  weakness.  Sentimental  old  Jaunty! 


60  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

At  the  top  of  the  stairs  Pamela  appeared.  A  long  white 
cloak  covered  her.  Down  the  stairs  she  came.  No  queen 
could  have  trodden  the  steps  more  proudly,  so  Jaunty 
thought,  who  knew  little  enough  of  queens  and  their  gait, 

"Let  me  see  your  dress,  miss,"  he  pleaded,  "one  mo- 
ment"; and  to  humour  the  ridiculous  old  man  she  let  slip 
from  her  shoulders  her  white  cloak,  and  like  foam  it  rippled 
at  her  feet. 

Jaunty  gasped.  Pamela  was  dressed  in  black,  startling, 
daring,  striking  black,  from  which  her  neck  and  shoulders 
rose  white  as  lilies.  "Solomon  in  all  his  glory,"  inaptly 
quoted  Jaunty,  and  Pamela  picked  up  her  cloak,  wrapped 
it  round  her  and  laughed,  and  Sally  laughed  too. 

When  the  Professor  saw  Pamela  he  ceased  to  be  a  man 
of  learning,  forgetting  all  he  knew  in  the  presence  of  a 
perfectly  unknown  quantity,  and  became  much  as  other 
men — at  least  he  supposed  so,  not  knowing  that  it  was  at 
least  unusual  for  men  to  cry  at  seeing  a  beautiful  young 
girl  dressed  for  her  first  ball.  He  supposed  that  they  too, 
brought  face  to  face  with  an  unfathomable  innocence,  would 
do  as  he  did.  He  turned  to  Jameson  and  was  glad  to  find 
him  looking  just  as  abashed  and  foolish  as  he  felt  him- 
self. 

"A  sorry  sight  it  would  be,"  Jameson  was  thinking,  "if 
young  men  behaved  as  he  and  Forsythe  were  behaving! 
Society  would  become  impossible — a  vale  of  tears." 

"I  congratulate  you,  John,"  he  said  bravely,  turning  to 
Mr.  Lawrence;  "Jaunty,  I  congratulate  you,"  and  Jaunty 
held  himself  deserving,  until  a  moment  later,  stricken  to 
the  heart,  he  saw  Pamela  step  into  the  carriage.  Then 
and  only  then  did  he  see  the  incriminating  scarlet  shoes.  It 
was  the  final  touch,  as  Pamela  had  meant  it  to  be,  and  it 
was  more  than  Jaunty  could  bear. 

"Miss  Sally,"  he  exclaimed,  "what  would  She  say?" 

"She?"  said  Sally,  recognising  that  the  word  was  spelt 
in  capital  letters.  "She?" 

"Yes,  miss,  She.    I  gave  Miss  Pamela  Her  letter." 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  61 

"Her  letter?"  said  Sally,  shrinking  as  though  Jaunty  had 
struck  her.  "What  letter?" 

"The  letter — forgive  me.  Before  She  went  away  I  asked 
Her  to  write  Her  wishes.  How  could  I  know  what  was 
right?  And  if  I  didn't  know,  who  was  to  know,  with 
your  father  so  innocent  in  the  ways  of  the  world?  I  gave 
the  letter  to  Miss  Pamela  this  afternoon,  at  five  o'clock. 
It  was  to  say  what  she  was  to  wear  and  how  she  was  to 
behave." 

"Don't,  don't,  don't,  Jaunty!"  pleaded  Sally,  stretching 
out  her  arms  as  if  to  hold  him  back. 

"Is  it  no  comfort  to  you,  miss?  I  thought  it  would  be," 
he  pleaded,  frightened  by  her  vehemence.  To  Jaunty  those 
letters  had  lain  there,  living  things,  links  with  another 
world. 

"Have  you  letters  for  me?"  she  whispered,  paling,  her 
eyes  like  stars  shining. 

"Come,"  he  said,  and  he  went  to  the  old  bureau  and 
turning  the  key  in  the  lock  he  opened  a  drawer.  There 
were  the  packets  of  letters.  He  picked  up  one,  untied  the 
ribbon  that  bound  it,  and  spread  the  letters  fan-shape, 
holding  them  like  a  pack  of  cards.  They  were  addressed 
to  "My  Sally."  "Coming  Out,  Miss  Sally,"  said  Jaunty. 
' 'Engagement — Wedding — and  Afterwards ." 

The  fan  was  closed  and  the  letters  tied  up  again,  and 
Sally  went  away  and  cried  her  eyes  out;  not  only  because 
the  hand  that  had  written  the  letters  could  no  longer  hold 
hers,  but  because  Pamela  had  had  just  such  a  letter  and 
hadn't  cried  at  all  and  hadn't  told  her  about  it. 

Meanwhile  the  thought  of  those  red  shoes  was  scorching 
the  heart  of  Jaunty.  He  must  prevent  Miss  Pamela  wear- 
ing them,  so  he  went  to  the  stables  and  saddled  the  pony 
and,  in  the  darkness  of  the  night,  set  forth  to  the  house 
where  those  red  shoes  were  dancing  their  owner  to  de- 
struction, if  not  to  the  devil. 

It  was  Mr.  Jameson  who  found  Jaunty  standing  in  the 
hall.  Above  the  strains  of  the  music  he  heard  him 


62  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

haranguing  a  footman,  and  he  went  to  the  rescue  of  the 
footman,  knowing  that  Jaunty's  anger  was  no  light  thing. 

"It's  only  Miss  Pamela  I  want  to  see,"  explained  Jaunty. 

Mr.  Jameson  asked  if  any  one  were  ill.  Jaunty  said  no 
one  was  ill.  But  he  must  see  Miss  Pamela — for  one  mo- 
ment. 

Mr.  Jameson  said  she  was  behaving  very  well — was 
dancing  every  dance — hadn't  danced  once  with  the  "house 
party."  Was  it  likely? 

"Not  in  the  least,"  agreed  Jaunty  testily. 

Mr.  Jameson  said  they  were  there  if  they  were  wanted. 

Jaunty  said  he  was  there  and  not  wanted;  but  he  must 
see  her. 

"She's  so  like  her  mother,  Jaunty,"  said  Mr.  Jameson, 
anxious  to  appease. 

"Never,  sir,  never!  Her  mother  would  never  have  done 
it." 

"Done  what?"  asked  Mr.  Jameson,  convinced  of  the 
innocence,  on  all  counts,  that  evening  at  least,  of  Pamela. 

Jaunty  must  see  her,  it  was  urgent;  so  Mr.  Jameson 
went  to  find  her,  and  he  found  her  engaged  in  breaking 
the  heart  of  a  splendid  young  man,  made  for  no  other 
purpose  than  to  bear  a  heart  broken  by  the  beauty  of 
Pamela. 

He  relinquished  her  grudgingly.  Mr.  Jameson  laid  his 
hand  on  his  arm,  and  promised  she  should  come  back.  "It's 
Jaunty;  he  must  see  you,"  he  whispered  to  Pamela. 

Furious  with  Jaunty,  she  followed  Mr.  Jameson,  and 
there,  standing  in  the  hall,  was  the  funny  old  thing. 
Couldn't  he  have  waited  an  hour  or  two  longer  to  hear  if 
she  had  enjoyed  herself? 

But  he  was  not  concerned  with  her  happiness. 

"Well,  and  what  is  it?"  she  asked. 

But  before  she  knew  what  he  was  doing,  he  was  down  on 
his  knees,  and  in  a  moment  her  red  shoes  were  off  and  her 
black  ones  were  on,  and  Jaunty  was  gone — out  into  the 
blackness  of  the  night 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  63 

Pamela  was  missed  from  the  ballroom  by  several  men, 
and  at  least  one  woman.  The  woman — a  very  pretty  young 
woman — with  a  laudable  generosity,  was  anxious  to  point 
out  to  her  husband,  "Such  a  pretty  girl — really  lovely — 
but  rather  bad  style — such  a  pity.  She's  wearing  a  black 
frock  and  scarlet  shoes — there  she  is !" 

The  husband  looked  at  Pamela  and  said,  "Women  are 
funny  things.  She  is  quite  lovely,  and  her  shoes  are  as 
black  as  night.  Come,  let's  dance,  and  don't  detract  from 
a  pretty  girl;  you  were  too  recently  one  yourself." 

The  husband  had  looked  at  Pamela  and  had  smiled  at 
her  in  the  kindly  way  in  which  some  men  will  always  smile 
at  something  young  and  lovely,  whether  their  wives  like  it 
or  not.  And  a  wise  wife  will  like  it,  and  she  will  make 
her  husband  see  that  what  he  really  smiles  at  is  the  mem- 
ory recalled  of  her  when  she  was  just  as  young  and  per- 
haps as  lovely;  and  he  will  realise  it  at  once,  will  be  sur- 
prised that  he  hadn't  thought  of  it  before. 

Jaunty  went  off  with  the  red  shoes  tucked  away  in  his 
coat  pocket,  and  their  close  contact  warmed  his  heart,  and 
as  he  rode  he  sang  snatches  of  the  "Te  Deum,"  and  dwelt 
on  the  difficulty  of  bringing  up  children. 

Early  next  morning,  just  before  dawn,  Sally  crept  out 
of  bed  and  sat  on  the  top  step  of  the  stairs — listening. 
Pamela  should  be  home  at  any  minute.  A  slight  noise  be- 
low and  Sally  edged  nearer  the  banister  and  looked  through. 
She  could  see  nothing.  But  still  there  were  shuffling,  quiet, 
creaky  sounds. 

"Who's  that?"  she  asked. 

"It's  me,  miss — Jaunty." 

"You,"  said  Sally,  relieved.     "What  are  you  doing?" 

"Miss  Pamela  should  be  home." 

"Yes.— Jaunty?" 

"Yes,  miss." 

"Bags  I  ask  first — you  know  what?" 

"If  she  enjoyed  herself,  miss?" 

"Yes,  don't  you?    Mind!" 


64.  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

"She  was,  miss." 

"Was  what?" 

"Enjoying  herself." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

There  was  silence.    Then  Sally  spoke.    "Jaunty?" 

"Yes,  miss." 

"What  have  you  got  on?" 

"My  Sunday-collection  coat." 

"That  you  wear  when  you  hand  the  plate?" 

"Yes,  miss." 

"Is  it  suitable,  Jaunty?" 

"It  seems  so,  miss." 

"You  feel  it  a  solemn  occasion?" 

"Very." 

"Why  are  you  waiting?    Are  you  worried?" 

"A  little." 

"What  about?  Tell  me!"  Sally's  face  was  wedged 
between  the  banisters,  and  she  peered  down  upon  the 
respectable  and  unhappy  Jaunty. 

"Sir  Henry — you  know  his  reputation,  miss?  I  saw 
him  crossing  the  hall — in  time  with  the  band,  at  his  age! 
I  stood  at  the  door." 

"What  door?" 

"Well,  Miss  Pamela  had  forgotten  something,  so  I 
went  ..." 

"Forgotten  to  say  'Yes,  please,'  and  'No,  thank  you,'  you 
wonderful  Jaunty?" 

"Well,  I  saw  him  cross  the  hall." 

"Why  shouldn't  he?  Why  does  a  hen  cross  a  road?  I 
don't  see  why  he  shouldn't,  if  the  historic  hen  did." 

"His  reputation  is  not  what  I  care  for.  Your  father 
wouldn't  know — and  if  he  knew  he  wouldn't  believe." 

"Bad  reputation,  Jaunty?  But  you  can't  prevent  us 
meeting  wicked  people,  can  you?" 

"No,  miss,  but  I  would  make  you  fear  them — that's  all 
I  would  ask." 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  65 

"Wicked  people  are  supposed  to  be  fascinating,  aren't 
they?" 

"You  shouldn't  feel  that  with  your  father  what  he  is." 

"Ah,  but  then  he  is  different  to  any  one,  isn't  he?  He 
could  be  wicked  and  still  remain  absolutely  good,  couldn't 
he?  And  so  could  you,  Jaunty.  It's  the  wanting  to  do 
bad  things  that  matters.  To  do  them  and  hate  them  all 
the  time,  that's  just  painful  experience,  isn't  it?" 

"Miss  Sally,  Miss  Sally,  where  did  you  learn  that?" 

She  said  the  little  hen  had  crossed  the  road  on  purpose  to 
tell  her. 

"Here  they  are,  miss,"  and  Jaunty  hastened  to  the  hall 
door  and  flung  it  wide.  The  cool  air  rushed  past  him,  up 
the  staircase,  and  Pamela  after  it.  Sally  wrapped  her 
dressing-gown  round  herself  and  her  arms  round  Pamela, 
and  they  danced  up  the  stairs  and  down  the  passage  and 
back  again. 

"Sally,  Sally,  I  can  never  be  the  same  again — it  came 
quite,  quite  naturally." 

"What  did?" 

"Flirting.  I  loved  it.  I  was  sad;  I  was  gay;  I  was 
heart-broken.  I  laughed.  I  nearly  cried.  A  mood  to 
meet  every  mood !  I  can  do  it  to  perfection.  See,  Sally 
.  .  .  this  when  a  man  told  me  his  horse  had  broken  its 
back!"  Pamela's  great  tragic  eyes  brimmed  over  with 
tears. 

"Don't,  Pamela!"  cried  Sally.  "I  can't  bear  it;  but  it 
was  no  credit  to  you  to  cry  over  that,  who  wouldn't?" 

"Of  course,  of  course,  Sally,  but  you  have  missed  the 
point.  I  might  have  wanted  to  cry  and  not  been  able. 
Think  what  a  tear  can  do  at  the  right  moment.  It's  worth 
thousands  of  'I  can't  tell  you  how  sorry  I  ams.'  " 

Sally  was  convinced.     Of  course  it  was. 

"See,  Sally  .  .  .  this  when  a  young  man  didn't  see  a 
joke,"  and  Pamela's  eyes  danced  with  delight. 

"What  j  oke  ?    Tell  me,  do !" 

"Any  joke,  goose." 


66  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

"It's  better  than  a  theatre,"  sighed  Sally.  "Did  you 
tear  your  frock?" 

"What  does  that  matter  ?" 

Sally's  eyes  widened.  How  in  the  space  of  a  few  hours 
had  Pamela  grown  away  from  her  and  their  circumstances ! 
"My  goodness/'  she  thought,  "not  matter !" 

"Come  and  undo  my  frock,  Sally." 

The  grey  dawn  came  in  at  the  window,  and  Sally,  instead 
of  undoing  Pamela's  frock,  went  to  the  window  and  looked 
out. 

"Look  at  the  sky,  Pamela." 

Pamela  came  over  and  looked;  then  putting  her  arm 
round  Sally's  neck  she  said,  "Darling,  funny  baby,  what's 
the  matter  with  the  sky?  It  can't  help  itself  dawning — 
any  more  than  I  can  help  myself  yawning." 

"Pamela,"  whispered  Sally,  "Her  letter?"  She  held 
out  her  hand.  "Do  let  me  see.  Did  you  take  it  with 
you?" 

Pamela  nodded  gravely.  She  drew  the  letter  from  her 
bodice.  She  gave  it  to  Sally,  and  Sally  walked  away  and 
opened  it.  She  read,  "God  bless  and  keep  you  good,  my 
sweet  child."  That  was  all.  Jaunty  was  wrong. 

Neither  of  the  girls  spoke.  Pamela  looked  at  Sally. 
Sally  looked  at  the  letter.  A  voice  spoke  to  them  both. 
To  Sally  most  distinctly,  because  she  was  most  ready  to 
listen;  was  always  listening. 

"You'll  have  to  be,  Pamela,"  said  Sally  at  last.  Pamela 
nodded. 

"I  suppose  so,  but  goodness  doesn't  really  appeal  to  me. 
I  am  sorry  to  say  it — but  it  doesn't.  Of  course  now  ..." 

"Not  Daddy  Long  Legs  and  Jaunty 's  kind?" 

Pamela  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Delightful;  but  I 
cannot  see  myself  leading  their  life — it's  monastic." 

"You're  hardly  likely  to,"  said  Sally. 

"You  think  there  are  possibilities,  then?" 

Sally  looked  at  her.  "Your  eyebrows,"  she  admitted, 
"are  .  .  ." 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  67 

"What?" 

"Provocative — to  say  the  least  of  it." 

"That's  a  good  word,  Sally." 

"Yes,  I've  just  discovered  it.  But,  Pamela,  I'm  talking 
like  this,  because  if  I  don't  I  shall  cry.  You've  got  to  be 
good.  Think  how  good  She  was,  and  no  one  ever  laughed 
so  much,  or  was  so  happy.  Good  morning,  my  Pamela. 
I'm  going  to  bed." 

"Not  to  cry?" 

"Who  knows?" 

"Sally,  wait!  Men  aren't  in  the  least  like  Jaunty  and 
Daddy  Long  Legs  or  the  'house  party.'  I  was  so  afraid 
they  might  be.  They  are  infinitely  more  amusing — and, 
Sally,  I  discovered  in  London  that  our  bringing  up  has  been 
absurd  and  ridiculous.  We're  children  for  our  .ages.  Do 
you  realise  that  we  have  known  no  girls — all  the  women 
we  have  known  have  been  dear,  good,  kind  things,  leading 
exemplary  lives  in  this  Panslea  of  ours?  Do  you  realise 
we  have  been  brought  up  by  two  dear,  innocent  men  ?  You 
are  fourteen  at  most,  I  am  sixteen  ..." 

"Time  will  put  that  right,"  said  Sally,  stretching  her 
arms  over  her  head,  "and  I'm  so  sleepy.  I  like  the  way 
we've  been  brought  up  .  .  ." 

She  went  to  her  room  and,  leaning  out  of  her  window, 
she  cried: 

"Mother,  no  child  ever  wanted  you  so  much." 


VI 


THROUGH  the  purple  haze  of  budding  larches,  Janet  drove 
to  the  home  chosen  for  her  by  brother  Michael.  The  road 
which  led  to  it  was  beautiful  and  it  was  wild — at  least 
Janet  called  it  so — and  she  being  so  tame  should  know. 
She  could  look  away  on  either  side  to  a  very  considerable 
distance  and  see  no  houses.  She  loved  expanse.  If  it 
suggested  loneliness  it  also  held  out  promise  of  infinity. 
She  didn't  know  she  liked  it  for  that  reason;  but  she  did. 
She  expressed  it  differently,  that  was  all.  She  said  to  her- 
self, "I  don't  so  much  mind  if  I  am  late  for  tea." 

The  man  who  drove  invited  her  to  sit  at  the  top  end  of 
the  wagonette,  quite  close  to  his  brown-and-white  check 
back,  so  that  he  could  talk  to  her  as  he  drove. 

Janet  sat  there  and  she  played  noughts  and  crosses  on 
his  broad  check  back  with  an  imaginary  opponent,  and  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life  she  won.  The  secret  lies,  Panslea 
believes,  in  beginning  first.  In  this  game  with  the  im- 
aginary opponent  Janet  began  first  every  time,  which  she 
had  never  done  in  a  real  game,  and  she  won,  which  she 
had  never  done  in  a  real  game. 

The  unconscious  driver  gave  her  much  information  as  he 
drove,  pointing  with  a  lashless  whip  to  hollows  where 
houses  lay  hidden  by  trees.  There  were  living  in  those 
houses  people  whom  the  young  lady  would  like — if  they 
liked  her.  They  didn't  call  on  lodgers  as  a  rule,  except  on 
Mrs.  Hill's,  and  as  she  was  a  lodger  at  Mrs.  Hill's,  it 
placed  her  in  a  different  "cattery."  Not  long  ago  a  lodger 
at  Mrs.  Bond's  had  turned  out  to  be  a  divorced  lady.  It 
gave  Panslea  a  turn.  They  were  more  careful  now. 

Janet  hastily  remarked  upon  the  lashless  whip,  and  the 
driver  laughed.  That  was  Miss  Sally's  doing.  She  paid 

68 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  69 

for  it,  though.  So  much  for  lashes,  same  as  some  folks 
paid  for  "wopses." 

Janet  was  immensely  interested,  and  she  said  they  both 
stung,  of  course.  That  fell  flat,  so  she  confessed  she  had 
never  seen  Mrs.  Hill.  The  driver  found  that  strange.  Had 
Mrs.  Hill  seen  her?  No?  That  was  downright  comical, 
that  was,  because  Mrs.  Hill  was  very  particular.  Janet 
hastened  to  say  Mrs.  Hill  had  seen  her  brother. 

The  driver  pulled  up  his  horse,  turned  on  the  box,  and 
asked  if  it  was  her  brother  who  was  a  dark  gentleman 
without  an  overcoat?  And  Janet  said,  Possibly,  because 
he  had  started  with  one,  but  he  was  on  the  fair  side. 

"That's  the  party,"  said  the  driver,  and  he  gave  his 
horse  permission  to  start. 

When  the  horse  stopped  again,  it  stopped  for  good  out- 
side the  house  Michael  had  described.  It  was  low.  It  was 
lovely,  and  its  white-framed  windows  were  as  like  Queen 
Anne  as  windows  can  be  like  a  woman.  The  brave  vine 
was  there  holding  the  old  house  up  in  its  arms  for  every 
one  to  see  (it  had  been  a  tender  nurse  all  these  years), 
and  in  the  doorway  stood  a  little  woman,  whom  Janet  in- 
stantly loved.  And  as  she  walked  over  the  uneven  brick 
floor  into  the  best  parlour,  she  was  prepared  to  give  her 
rooms  in  Westminster,  rent  free,  to  the  nervous  young 
diplomat. 

"Who  is  that?"  she  asked,  pointing  to  a  picture  hanging 
on  the  wall  of  a  little  girl. 

"That's  dear  Miss  Sally." 

"And  this?" 

"Dear  Miss  Pamela." 

"And  this?"  asked  Janet  gently. 

"She's  gone,  miss,  but  she  still  seems  very  near.'' 

"Their  mother?"  whispered  Janet. 

"Their  mother,"  whispered  Mrs.  Hill. 

Then  turning  to  the  picture  of  Pamela,  Janet  said  she 
had  seen  some  one  so  like  her. 

"Have  you  ?    We  never  have !"  said  Mrs.  Hill,  and  Janet 


70  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

looked  at  her  and  they  laughed.  Yes,  Janet  would  love 
tea. 

While  Mrs.  Hill  went  to  get  the  teapot,  Janet  looked 
around,  examining  the  many  photographs  on  the  walls, 
and  came  across  one  that  thrilled  her.  It  was  undoubtedly 
of  the  man  with  the  kind  eyes  who  had  taken — by  mistake 
— the  little  poulterer's  basket. 

"And  this  one?"  she  asked,  when  Mrs.  Hill  came  back 
with  the  teapot. 

"That  is  Mr.  Lawrence,  their  father.  It's  just  made, 
miss — the  tea." 

"I  met  him  in  London,"  said  Janet  eagerly. 

"He  was  in  London  lately."  Mrs.  Hill  said  it  in  a  way 
that  implied  that  he  couldn't  very  well  be  in  London  and 
not  be  seen. 

"What  did  he  go  up  for,  do  you  know  ?" 

Mrs.  Hill  said  that  was  not  known.  But  what  he  had 
brought  back — or,  rather,  what  had  followed  him  in  a  day 
or  two,  was  a  partially  bedridden  French  lady.  She  had 
come  to  teach  Miss  Sally  French.  Mr.  Lawrence  could 
hardly  have  gone  up  to  London  with  the  exact  intention  of 
bringing  her  back,  but  that  was  neither  here  nor  there. 
The  lady  was  here,  however,  and  was  very  charming,  and 
spoke  French  as  easily  lying  down  as  sitting  up — which, 
after  all,  was  what  mattered, 

"He  had  an  adventure,"  said  Janet;  "he  took  by  mistake 
— at  least  he  carried  a  heavy  basket  for  a  little  boy,  and 
when  he  parted  from  the  boy  he  forgot  to  give  him  back 
the  basket." 

Mrs.  Hill  said  Mr.  Lawrence  might  very  easily  do  that; 
but  the  little  boy  would  not  be  the  loser,  in  the  end.  "Mrs. 
Lawrence  used  to  say,  'Mr.  Lawrence  is  unlike  any  one 
else  in  the  world — he  will  never  do  what  other  people  do; 
but  he  will  do  kinder  things,  better  things,  than  they  do, 
not  always  perhaps  in  the  way  they  think  best;  but  in  a 
better  way  and  a  kinder  way.'  " 

"You  have  known  them  long?"  suggested  Janet. 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  71 

"Many  years." 

"And  you  look  after  them  ..." 

"I  do  what  I  can — the  whole  village  does  what  it  can; 
but  there's  Jaunty." 

"Jaunty,  Jaunty?"  repeated  Janet,  puzzled.  "I  know 
the  name." 

"He's  a  great  character,  and  it's  an  uncommon  name." 

Janet  nodded  her  head.  It  was  a  curious  name. — 
Jaunty?  She  couldn't  place  him,  and  yet  she  did  know 
the  name. 

Imagine  her  first  Sunday  at  church — when  not  only  did 
she  see  Pamela,  who  had  dined  at  the  restaurant,  but 
Jaunty  who  had  fetched  her  away.  Jaunty  presented  the 
plate  at  Janet's  waist-line  as  he  might  have  presented  a 
pistol  at  her  head,  and  waited  until  she  had  added  another 
sixpence  to  the  one  she  had  already  put  in.  He  wasn't 
going  to  let  a  young  lady  dressed  as  she  was  dressed, 
lodging  cheaply  enough,  too,  at  Mrs.  Hill's,  get  off  with 
sixpence,  when  the  church  wanted  hot-water  pipes  and  a 
hundred  other  things.  It  was  the  first  time  in  her  life 
that  Janet  had  suffered  the  penalty  of  being  well  dressed. 

From  the  moment  Mrs.  Hill  pulled  back  the  curtains  in 
Janet's  room,  Janet  became  one  of  the  people  of  Panslea — 
a  devoted  admirer  of  Mrs.  Hill,  and  the  happy  recipient 
of  many  confidences.  Her  questioning  eyes  found  a  ready 
answer  in  Sally's  busy  little  tongue — not  that  Sally  was* 
indiscreet. 

The  farmhouse  door  stood  wide  when  Janet  came  down 
that  first  morning;  if  the  singing  of  birds  had  been  a 
stronger  lure  than  the  smell  of  coffee  she  would  have 
walked  down  the  flagged  path  and  out  into  this  new  and 
happy  world.  But  Janet  was  a  ready  breakfaster,  so  she 
breakfasted.  Then  she  walked  down  the  flagged  path 
and  out  into  her  new  world.  She  lifted  her  arms  as  a 
bird  does  its  wings,  but  she  had  no  wish  to  fly,  for  she 
saw  in  the  distance  a  girl  sketching.  Now  Janet  had 
often  been  to  the  Tate  Gallery,  so  she  went  up  to  the  girl, 


72         ;  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

stood  beside  her,  half  closed  her  eyes,  and  put  her  head 
on  one  side,  in  the  manner  assumed  by  those  who  would 
show  themselves  artistic,  and  said,  "Do  you  paint  what 
you  see?" 

"What  d'you  think?"  asked  the  girl. 

"People  don't  always — I  mean  they  don't  want  to — they 
improve  upon  what  they  see." 

"I  improve,"  said  the  girl,  pointing  her  brush  between 
her  lips.  "I  have  often  wondered  what  it  was  I  did." 

"People  see  greens  so  differently,  don't  they?"  asked 
Janet,  unabashed.  Anne  Beech  admitted  it — besides,  they 
•were  different. 

"Some  people  see  them  purple,"  said  Janet;  then  she 
added,  "Shall  you  put  a  cow  in  the  foreground?  One 
hardly  likes  to  put  a  bull,  because  of  Paul  Potter — but  he 
was  oils." 

"It  might  be  dangerous,  even  in  water-colour;  besides, 
it's  Mrs.  Baker's  cabbage  patch — the  foreground,  I  mean. 
It  is  difficult." 

"They're  easiest  lying  down,"  said  Janet  kindly.  (A 
cow  lying  down — a  horse  going  over  a  bridge;  she  knew 
those  two  ways  out.) 

"That's  not  the  difficulty,"  said  Anne.  "It's  a  blue 
reindeer  I  see  so  distinctly — not  a  red  cow;  and  if  I  put 
in  any  reindeer,  no  matter  what  colour,  no  one  will  believe 
it  was  there." 

"It  isn't,"  said  Janet.     "Are  you  laughing  at  me?" 

Anne  said  she  hardly  knew  her  well  enough.  Janet  said 
she  might  if  she  liked,  adding,  "I  expect  you  are  very 
clever." 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Anne. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Janet,  "every  one  is  so  kind — at  least 
Mrs.  Hill  is,  and  I  was  wondering  if  every  one  in 
Panslea  ..." 

Anne  asked  her  if  she  had  met  the  Lawrences.  Janet 
said  she  had  met  no  one;  but  she  had  heard  about  them 
from  Mrs.  Hill. 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  73 

"Have  you  met  Jaunty?"  asked  Anne.  "Of  course  not, 
you  said  you  hadn't  met  any  one." 

Janet  hastened  to  say  in  a  way  she  had  met  Jaunty. 

"Seen  him,  I  suppose?" 

Janet  said  she  thought  she  had;  but  she  was  careful  not 
to  be  too  certain.  To  confess  a  foreknowledge  of  'Jaunty 
had  already  been  counted  presumption  on  her  part.  Her 
right  had  been  questioned. 

"He's  a  great  character,  is  Jaunty;  he  keeps  us  all  in 
great  order.  The  Lawrences  he  entirely  rules,"  said  Anne. 

"Don't  they  mind?" 

"They  mind  nothing  that  makes  any  one  happy." 

"And  it  makes  him  happy?"  asked  Janet. 

Anne  Beech  said  she  wouldn't  go  as  far  as  to  say  that; 
then,  packing  up  her  paints,  she  suggested  they  should  go 
up  the  village,  where  they  would  be  bound  to  meet  Sally 
Lawrence.  Then  she  remembered  that  Sally  would  be  at 
her  French  lesson.  "Would  you  like  to  see  her  at  her 
French  lesson?" 

Janet  said  she  would;  but  she  didn't  know  the  Law- 
rences, whereupon  her  new  friend  said  every  one  knew 
them.  It  wasn't  in  the  least  necessary  to  be  introduced,  or 
to  leave  cards,  or  to  do  any  of  those  absurdly  conventional 
things. 

"But  how  would  you  know  people's  names  ?"  asked  Janet. 

"Oh,  I  see.  Well,  I  will  call  upon  you  properly  to- 
morrow. I  will  leave  my  card — don't  ask  my  name  now, 
it  would  be  so  dreadfully  simple." 

They  walked  through  the  village,  and  outside  an  old 
red  house — with  white-framed  windows,  seven  in  a  row 
above;  and  below,  three  on  each  side  of  the  hall  door — 
Janet's  friend  stopped. 

"This  is  the  Lawrences'  house,"  she  said,  opening  a  high 
iron  gate.  "It  is  a  delightful  house  and  quite  close  to  the 
road,  which  enables  the  village  to  learn  French  if  it  will — 
even  in  these  days  of  cheap  education  it  is  an  opportunity. 
Listen !" 


74  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

Janet  listened,  and  she  heard  some  one  singing  Chopin's 
funeral  march. 

"Come  round  here,"  said  Anne.  Janet  followed,  keeping 
close  to  the  wall  of  the  house.  As  they  approached  the 
back  of  the  house  the  voice  grew  louder.  It  was  without 
doubt  singing  French  verbs. 

"There's  Sally." 

Janet  looked.  "Higher,  higher,  right  up;  look!"  said 
Anne. 

And  Janet  looked  up,  and  there  on  the  top  of  a  ladder 
which  leaned  against  the  sill  of  a  bedroom  window  was 
perched  a  girl,  singing  her  French  verbs  to  the  sparrow  in 
the  ivy,  to  the  swallow  in  the  eave,  and  to  a  mademoiselle 
in  bed;  but  that  Janet  did  not  know  until  she  was  told. 

"The  French  governess  is  partially  bedridden,"  explained 
Anne. 

"I  know,"  said  Janet  eagerly.  "Mr.  Lawrence  found 
her  in  London  and  I  was  there." 

"When  he  found  her?" 

"Well,  not  exactly,  but  when  the  basket  was  .  .  . 
found." 

"Then  the  Lawrences  won't  surprise  you.  Sally,  rightly 
enough,  says  she  can't  sit  in  a  bedroom  to  do  lessons,  so 
that  is  her  plan." 

Janet  said  it  seemed  a  very  good  one — only  she  would 
never  have  thought  of  singing  French  verbs  to  a  funeral 
march.  "They  don't  seem  to  go  together,  although  French 
verbs  are  miserable  things  at  the  best  of  times." 

"All  the  Lawrences'  plans  turn  out  all  right  in  the  end," 
said  Anne,  "although  in  their  beginnings  they^  are  quaint. 
Now  we  mustn't  disturb  lessons." 

So  Janet  went  home  to  think,  and  next  day  she  wrote  to 
Michael,  and  this  is  what  she  wrote: 

"Michael,  dear,  you  have  opened  to  me  the  gates  of  Paradise. 
But  the  angel  within  the  gates,  so  far  as  I  have  seen,  is  Anne 
Beech.  I  wish  you  had  fallen  in  love  with  her.  I  met  her  yes- 
terday without  discovering  her  name.  I  could  have  asked  it,  of 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  75 

course ;  but  the  mystery  surrounding  her  was  charming  in  itself. 
I  was  so  afraid  it  might  be  dispelled  by  a  name.  However, 
to-day  I  went  out,  and  when  I  came  in  I  found  upon  my  sitting- 
room  table  a  leaf,  under  a  small  stone.  I  took  up  the  leaf.  It 
was  a  beech  leaf,  very,  very  new,  very,  very  green,  and  deli- 
ciously  transparent.  Mrs.  Hill  came  in  while  I  was  examining 
it,  and  said  Miss  Beech  had  called  and  had  left  her  card.  I 
asked  where  it  was,  and  Mrs.  Hill  said  I  held  it.  Miss  Beech 
never  left  any  other  card.  I  asked  what  she  did  in  winter,  and 
Mrs.  Hill  laughed.  Was  that  being  what  you  call  matter  of 
fact?  On  my  part  I  mean?  Is  that  the  sort  of  thing  that 
makes  you  sleepy? 

"I  said  I  would  call  upon  Miss  Beech,  and  Mrs.  Hill  said  no 
moment  could  be  better  than  the  present,  because  Miss  Beech 
had  said  she  was  going  straight  home.  I  told  Mrs.  Hill  I 
should  probably  not  need  a  card,  but  might  I  pick  one  from 
the  garden  wall  as  I  passed?  She  said  I  might.  It  is  all  child- 
ish but  delightful,  and  I  believe  the  spirit  of  Sally  Lawrence 
is  in  the  air.  She  does  her  French  lessons  from  the  top  of  a 
ladder,  which  rests  against  the  sill  of  Mademoiselle's  bedroom 
window,  and  the  Mademoiselle  is  what  Mr.  Lawrence  went  to 
London  for.  I  haven't  yet  met  the  one  .  .  .  Michael,  dear  old 
Michael,  I  am  told  she  is  lovely.  Well,  I  found  Miss  Beech  in, 
and  I  laid  my  card  on  the  table,  and  I  said,  'That's  my  name,' 
and  she  said,  'Plaster'?  and  when  I  told  her  'Mason,'  she  said 
of  course  she  knew.  'So  you  are  Mr.  Mason's  sister?  and  what 
made  you  come  here?' 

"She  lifted  a  tulip  from  a  kinky  lead,  and  put  it  into  another 
— not  bettering  its  position  in  the  least.  I  dared  not  tell  her 
about  P.  L.,  so  I  said  I  wasn't  very  strong.  She  looked  at  me. 
'How  curious,'  she  said.  'I  have  never  seen  any  one  look  so 
blatantly  healthy.  However,  one  can't  go  by  appearances. 
Tell  me  some  more  truths.' 

"I  could  say  nothing  after  that  except  that  I  must  go.  She 
asked,  Why?  Had  I  many  engagements?  I  smiled.  Anne, 
slim  as  a  daffodil,  in  her  green  sheaf-life  frock,  stood  before 
me,  and  putting  out  her  hand  drew  me  down  on  to  the  sofa. 
'Dear  Miss  Mason,'  she  said,  'I  wish  I  knew  why  you  have  come 
to  Panslea.  If  it  is  to  get  colour  into  those  pink  cheeks,  and 
flesh  on  those  well-covered  bones,  stay  and  be  happy,  but  you 
must  take  Anne  Beech  as  you  find  her,  and  not  try  to  make 
her  out  something  else.  If  you  want  romance  you  must  con- 
centrate on  Pamela  Lawrence.  She  went  to  her  first  dance  the 
other  night,  and  the  postman  has  been  weighed  down  with  let- 
ters for  her — all  proposals — ever  since.' 


76  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

"Have  I  said  it  too  suddenly,  dear  Michael?  It  is  all  rather 
puzzling.  I  shouldn't  put  off  proposing  too  long  if  you  really 
mean  it,  and,  Michael  dear,  I  find  I  spend  so  little  here,  that  I 
might  make  marriage  possible  for  you,  see?  I  hope  this  letter 
will  convey  something  to  you  beyond  my  love — I  am  a  very, 
ridiculously  happy  Janet — if  it  weren't  for  your  trouble." 

To  which  letter,  by  return,  came  an  angry  answer  from 
Michael,  rather  angry!  He  told  Janet  she  was  a  dear, 
silly  goose,  and  not  to  breathe  a  word  about  P.L.  to  any 
one.  He  wouldn't  for  the  world  let  any.  one  think  he  was 
in  love  with  her.  Least  of  all  Anne  Beech — and  he  begged 
to  say  a  daffodil  didn't  in  the  least  describe  Anne — she  was 
anything  but  yellow. 

Janet  read  Michael's  letter  and  folded  it  up.  "The 
dear  old  thing,"  she  said,  "he  can  wake  up  when  he  likes," 
and  of  course  he  could.  But  Janet  didn't  know  why  her 
letter  in  particular  should  have  aroused  him. 

There  are  men  in  this  world  of  ours  who,  being  good  men 
and  kind,  rather  than  hurt  a  woman  they  love— who  bores 
them — will  feign  sleep  at  those  moments  when  they  feel 
at  the  end  of  their  tether.  Living  with  Janet  had  become 
a  kind  of  rest-cure — enforced — for  Michael. 

Janet  was  sure  she  felt  the  atmosphere  of  Panslea  en- 
veloping her,  as  it  were,  in  its  soft  folds.  The  influence 
of  Mrs.  Lawrence  was  a  tangible  thing,  a  living,  force- 
ful thing.  So  real  a  thing  was  it  that  Janet,  at  the  end  of 
two  or  three  days,  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was 
because  of  that  influence — and  only  because  of  it — that 
Miss  Eleanor  Doe  had  not  eloped  with  Lord  Bridlington — 
Mr.  Masters  with  Anne  Beech.  Panslea  without  that  in- 
fluence would  have  been  as  wicked  a  place  as  it  was  pos- 
sible for  a  small  village  to  be.  It  was  very  wonderful! 
Janet  ventured  to  say  so  to  Anne,  anxious  to  show  that  she 
too  was  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  the  place.  She  said  how 
good  it  had  made  Miss  Doe. 

Anne  admitted  the  wonderfulness  of  the  influence — no 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  77 

one  was  more  alive  to  it  than  she  was — but  she  ventured  to 
say  that  Miss  Eleanor  was  naturally  very  good. 

"Of  course — good!"  admitted  Janet,  "but  not  so  good 
as  she  is  now." 

Anne  challenged  Janet  to  fit  a  wickedness  to  Miss 
Eleanor's  soul.  And  Janet  couldn't  find  anything  that 
fitted.  She  dared  not  suggest  elopement.  It  was  much 
too  large  and  loose  a  thing. 

"Of  course,"  said  Anne,  "the  influence  is  this — that  if  I 
feel  cross  and  impatient  I  stop  and  think  before  I  show 
it.  'What  would  She  have. 

"Oh!  that?"  said  Janet. 

"Yes,  just  that,  and  it's  quite  enough — to  make  a  dif- 
ference, I  mean.  Then  we  don't  gossip  maliciously — we 
don't  ascribe  motives.  ..." 

"But  it  could — the  influence,  I  mean — do  more  if  it 
were  necessary,"  argued  Janet. 

"Yes,  it  could  do  anything;  but  somehow  or  other  it  is 
the  small  sins  which  hinder  us  in  the  paths  of  Panslea — 
bigger  sins,  not  necessarily  worse  sins — don't  seem  to  come 
our  way." 

But  Janet  clung  to  her  belief  in  the  power  of  the  influ- 
ence, and  she  looked  at  Miss  Eleanor  in  church  with  tender 
misunderstanding.  There  were  so  many  wickednesses  she 
might  have  committed. 

Dear  little  Miss  Eleanor  was  as  incapable  as  was  a 
garden  rake  of  committing  deliberate  sin.  Her  thoughts 
were  beautiful — her  aspirations  divine — her  dreams  of  an- 
other world.  She  thanked  God  every  day  of  her  life  for 
the  innumerable  blessings  showered  upon  her,  and  had  no 
idea  that  her  goodness  was  of  them  all  the  most  rare. 

She  looked  forward  in  her  dreams  to  shaking  hands  with 
Leonardo  da  Vinci  in  Heaven,  but  didn't  know  what  she 
should  say  to  Torrigiano  for  breaking  Michael  Angelo's 
nose.  He  might  so  easily  have  injured  the  precious  eye- 
sight. Perhaps  she  would  understand  Torrigiano's  motive 
and  that  would  make  it  easier.  She  was  slow  to  blame 


78  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

genius.  She  hoped  and  prayed  that  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds 
would  not  be  deaf  in  Heaven,  because  she  wanted  to  thank 
him  so  much  for  his  beautiful  work,  and  she  was  very  shy, 
and  would  like  to  say  it  as  softly  as  possible.  She  wanted 
very  much  to  ask  Romney  if  Lady  Hamilton  were  really  as 
beautiful  as  he  had  painted  her — but  of  course  the  subject 
was  one  she  could  hardly  mention.  Perhaps  he  would  say 
something  first.  The  controversy  must  pain  him.  She  was 
quite  certain  her  Heaven  would  be  peopled  by  great  paint- 
ers, and  perhaps  one  of  them  would  tell  her  how  to  make  a 
winding  path  lie  down  and  not  stand  up  like  a  corkscrew 
on  end.  Perhaps  perspective  in  Heaven  would  be  called 
by  an  easier  name.  Perhaps  in  Heaven  there  would  be 
none.  In  that  way  would  it  indeed  be  Heaven  to  the  timid 
painter. 

All  these  gentle  thoughts  occupied  Miss  Eleanor's  mind 
in  church,  and  Janet  guessed  none  of  them. 


VII 


PAMELA  was  very  busy.  She  had  so  many  letters  to  an- 
swer (Sally  really  believed,  or  said  she  believed,  them  to 
be  proposals)  that  Sally  had  to  amuse  herself,  which  she 
was  perfectly  well  able  to  do. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  she  started  her  armchair  busi- 
ness. 

It  happened  in  this  wise.  She  was  told  that  old  Simon 
Saxton,  up  the  church  lane,  was  so  crippled  with  rheuma- 
tism that  he  couldn't  go  to  bed,  that  all  night  he  sat  up, 
leaning  his  poor  dear  old  head  on  the  table,  and  that  so 
he  slept  or  tried  to  sleep.  When  Sally  heard  this  she 
rested  ill  in  her  soft  pillows,  and  she  tossed  about  in  her 
comfortable  bed.  Her  cheeks  burned,  and  her  heart 
thumped  with  sympathy  for  poor  old  Simon.  And  when 
Sally  sympathised  she  didn't  end  with  feeling  sorry,  she 
must  be  up  and  doing.  It  was  early  to  get  up,  five  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  but  she  must.  She  could  bear  it  no  longer. 
Pamela  was  tired  out  refusing  people ;  Jaunty  was  inac- 
cessible; Matilda  didn't  count;  and  Daddy  Long  Legs  she 
never  disturbed  unless  it  were  absolutely  necessary. 

Mademoiselle  alone  remained.  She  was  so  often  in  bed 
that  night  and  day  could  be  but  names  to  her,  therefore  to 
Mademoiselle's  room  went  Sally.  She  awakened  her  gently 
and  said  she  had  something  very  important  to  say,  so 
Mademoiselle  must  listen.  She  was  going  to  say  it  in  her 
best  French,  introducing  all  yesterday's  idioms. 

She  said  it  in  French,  and  Mademoiselle,  half  awake, 
wondered  at  the  fluency  of  this  strange  language,  but  de- 
spaired of  understanding  it.  Not  so  much  that  Sally's 
French  was  bad  as  that  Mademoiselle's  sleep  had  been 
deep.  All  she  gathered  was  that  some  one  in  the  village 

79 


80  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

had  left  his  head  on  the  table.  Now  to  Mademoiselle  it 
was  quite  evident  that  it  was  some  one  else  who  must  have 
cut  off  the  head  and  afterwards  have  put  it  on  the  table — 
naturally  leaving  it  there,  for  who  would  wish  to  keep  it? 
It  was  a  horrible  story,  not  fit  for  Sally  to  hear.  But  Sally 
had  heard  it,  repeated  it,  and  was  gone.  Mademoiselle  her- 
self was  helpless,  and  Jaunty  was  in  the  bachelor's  wing 
— not  within  call — so  the  position  was  a  hopeless  one. 

A  murder!  It  was  horrible.  Mademoiselle  rang  her 
bell,  and  of  course  nothing  happened  because  the  bell  rang 
into  a  passage  and  every  one  in  the  house  was  in  bed,  ex- 
cept Sally,  and  she  had  gone  for  a  walk  in  order  to  think 
out  a  plan.  When  she  came  in,  dew-drenched,  she  found 
Jaunty  distracted,  and  her  father,  dictionary  in  hand, 
trying  to  make  out  an  extraordinary  story  Mademoiselle 
was  trying  to  tell.  Sally,  of  course,  cleared  it  all  up  and 
put  the  dictionary  back  in  its  proper  place,  under  the 
bird-cage,  from  whence  it  had  eome,  and  sent  Jaunty  about 
his  business  and  her  breakfast. 

After  breakfast  she  started  for  Bridlington  Park.  She 
reached  it  without  adventure,  for  which  she  was  sorry. 
She  rang  the  bell  with  determination,  and  waited.  When 
the  door  opened  she  asked  of  the  footman  who  opened  it  if 
Lord  Bridlington  was  at  home,  and  when  the  footman  said 
his  lordship  was  not  at  home,  Sally  said,  "Then  say  please 
I  should  like  to  see  him."  And  the  footman  went  and 
Sally  stood  in  the  great  hall,  which  had  been  built  neither 
for  nor  by  Bridlingtons,  and  wondered  what  it  would  be 
like  to  live  there.  She  knew  Lord  Bridlington  was  as  proud 
of  the  house  as  Lady  Bridlington  was  of  a  name  that  was 
written  one  way  arid  pronounced  another.  Lord  Bridling- 
ton she  knew  had  infinitely  preferred  himself  as  Thomas 
Brown  and  his  wife  as  Mrs.  Thomas  Brown.  By  that 
name  he  had  thought  of  her  and  loved  her  for  many  years. 
Neither  he  nor  she  would  ever  get  accustomed  to  the 
change.  Sally  knew  as  every  one  in  the  village  knew 
that  the  change  had  been  made  on  account  of  the  little 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  81 

Browns — so  Lady  Bridlington  always  said,  adding  that  it 
was  not  as  if  Thomas  had  sought  the  honour,  disregarding 
the  fact  that  for  years  she  had  prayed  for  a  peerage  for 
him,  using  other  influence  as  well.  Sally  wondered  why 
plain  Thomas  Brown  should  have  been  made  a  peer  of 
the  realm  because  he  had  made  and  patented  a  hard  red 
brick  that  wouldn't  wear  out.  The  paths  up  to  the  cottages 
on  the  Bridlington  estate  were  laid  with  these  hard  red 
bricks,  which  no  Bridlington  foot  would  ever  wear.  Sally 
loved  the  old  bricks  that  were  trodden  into  unevenness  by 
the  feet  of  generations  passed  by.  She  loved  the  little  cups 
in  them  that  held  the  clear  water  after  a  spring  shower. 
They  made,  if  nothing  else,  such  nice  drinking-places  for 
the  birds,  such  delightful  things  for  children  either  to  jump 
over,  or  step  into,  as  suited  their  particular  dispositions. 

"His  lordship  would  see  Miss  Lawrence." 

Miss  Lawrence  knew  it  and  she  stepped  gaily  into  the 
library,  and  sat  herself  down  on  a  sofa.  The  more  she 
sat  the  deeper  she  sank,  and  she  asked  Lord  Bridlington 
if  he  liked  cushions.  He  said  he  hated  them.  He  always 
threw  them  out  of  a  chair.  It  was  a  bad  beginning.  Sally 
jumped  up  and  slipping  behind  Lord  Bridlington,  who 
stood,  sank  into  the  chair  the  cushion  of  which  was  still 
rising,  released  from  the  pressure  he  had  brought  to  bear 
upon  it. 

"But  this  is  a  surprisingly  comfortable  chair,"  she  said, 
grieved  and  shocked  that  he  should  lie  so  lightly. 

He  said  it  was;  what  he  had  meant  was  that  he  hated 
loose  cushions.  A  comfortable  chair,  of  course,  was  a 
necessity. 

"Done!"  cried  Sally,  springing  up.  "You've  said  it  and 
you've  never  gone  back  on  your  word — you've  said  so 
dozens  of  times.  Say  it  again,  after  me;  about  the  arm- 
chair, I  mean." 

She  stood,  a  slip  of  a  thing,  before  Lord  Bridlington, 
and  he  looking  at  her  felt  just  plain  Thomas  Brown  again 
and  radiant  at  that. 


82  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

She  stood  with  her  finger  lifted  while  he  repeated  after 
her  the  words,  "A  comfortable  armchair  is  a  necessity." 

He  repeated  the  words  glibly  enough  because  the  ,child 
was  a  pretty  child,  and  a  happy  child,  and  because  she 
didn't  treat  him  in  the  least  as  he  was  afraid  he  ought  to 
be  treated.  Then  begging  him  to  sit  down  in  his  com- 
fortable chair,  she  told  him  the  story  of  Simon  Saxton,  and 
it  lost  nothing  in  the  telling.  The  listener  was  more  in- 
terested in  the  fact  that  Sally's  eyes  could  fill  with  tears 
and  not  brim  over  than  in  the  story  itself.  The  story 
wasn't  pretty. 

Then  Sally,  who  was  as  pretty  as  a  fairy  story  with  a 
happy  ending,  drew  a  small  table  up  to  his  chair,  begged 
him  to  lay  his  head  upon  it  and  try  to  imagine  himself 
spending  the  night  like  that — j  ust  like  that !  Obediently 
he  bent  his  head,  and  Sally  with  the  aid  of  the  flat  side 
of  a  large  paper  knife  pressed  it  lower  and  lower  till  it 
rested  on  the  table.  Thomas  Brown  felt  a  fool,  but  a 
happy  one,  until  the  door  opened  and  Lady  Bridlington 
came  in.  Then  it  was  all  folly  and  no  happiness. 

"Bridlington!"  she  exclaimed,  "what  is  the  matter?" 
And  Sally  explained.  It  was  difficult  until  she  came  to  the 
Simon  Saxton  part  of  the  story.  There  was  nothing  ridicu- 
lous about  that,  and  Lady  Bridlington's  eyes  were  full  of 
tears  when  Sally  had  done. 

"Thomas,  this  must  not  be,"  she  said. 

"It  must  not  be,  my  dear,  but  what  does  Sally  propose?" 

Sally  proposed — only  this !  That  every  poor  old  man 
in  the  village,  every  poor  old  woman,  should  have  a  com- 
fortable armchair,  a  good,  well-stuffed,  comfortable  arm- 
chair. "Say  it  again  after  me,  please.  No?  Well,  it's 
a  fact — a  well-known  fact — that  most  rheumatism  and  all 
sciatica  come  from  uncomfortable  chairs. 

Lord  Bridlington  longed  to  dispute  that  point.  It  was 
one  of  the  absurd  statements  Lawrence  loved  to  make. 
He  knew  that!  Lawrence's  theories  exasperated  him.  If 
dear  Mrs.  Lawrence  hadn't  died  he  would  never  have  .  .  . 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  83 

"How  many  chairs  d'you  want?"  he  asked,  stifling  the 
spirit  of  controversy. 

Sally  proposed  ten. 

"Ten  at  how  much?" 

"I  would  propose  ten  at  seven  guineas — ten  to  begin 
with." 

"Would  you?" 

Sally  nodded. 

"Seventy  guineas?" 

"What's  that?"  asked  Sally,  with  a  fine  scorn,  who  in 
the  whole  course  of  her  life  had  never  possessed  a  tenth 
of  that  sum  for  her  very  own. 

"You  propose  that  I  should  give  ten  armchairs  at  seven 
guineas  a-piece?" 

Sally  nodded  again. 

"Well,  7  don't." 

Sally's  face  expressed  the  disappointment  she  felt. 

"Are  you  surprised,  Sally?" 

"Hardly,"  said  Sally,  sitting  in  an  attitude  of  deepest 
dejection,  "a  man  who  makes  the  hardest  things  in  the 
world,  who  tries  to  make  them  hard,  who  is  rewarded  for 
making  them  hard,  naturally  becomes  hard  himself.  Kind 
cottage  mothers  like  the  brick  paths  worn  by  the  feet  of 
their  children.  They  like,  when  they  grow  old,  to  see  the 
feet  of  their  big  sons,  soldier  sons,  covering  three  of  the 
little  depressions  into  which  the  same  feet  used  to  stumble 
when  they  were  tiny.  They  don't  ask  for  hard,  hard 
bricks." 

"Sally,  I'm  not  so  hard  as  you  think.  I  have  another 
plan  to  propose.  They  shall  have  the  chairs  if  you,  from 
time  to  time,  will  inspect  them.  See  that  they  are  kept 
clean  and  the  springs  in  order." 

"You  darling!"  said  Sally.  Then  she  did  a  thing  from 
which  neither  Thomas  Brown  nor  Bridlington  ever  recov- 
ered. She  set  upon  the  brow  of  Bridlington  the  seal  of 
old  age.  The  kiss  was  the  kiss  of  a  happy  child  bestowed 
upon  a  man  too  old  to  count. 


84  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

"Now  to  business,"  said  Lord  Bridlington,  aged  in  a 
moment. 

To  get  the  chairs  from  one  cottage  to  another  there 
must  be  a  cart,  which  Sally  must  drive.  It  must  be 
painted  a  brilliant  green,  that  was  her  idea;  with  red 
wheels,  also  her  idea.  It  was  Bridlington's  that  her  name 
should  be  painted  on  the  cart  and  so  save  the  tax. 

Sally  laughed.  She  didn't  realise  that  Bridlington  was 
so  rich  because  he  and  his  father  before  him  had  thought 
of  little  savings  all  their  lives.  Nor  did  she  know  that  her 
father  was  poor  because  his  father  and  his  grandfathers 
before  him  had  never  sa>ped  anything. 

But  she  got  her  chairs  and  her  cart  (she  had  her  pony), 
and  she  became  inspector  of  armchairs  for  the  people  of 
Panslea.  It  kept  her  occupied  while  Pamela  danced  and 
flirted. 

Bridlington  had  stipulated  that  the  chairs  should  be 
lent  only  to  deserving  people.  Sally  demurred.  The  bones 
of  the  bad  were  just  as  sharp  as  the  bones  of  the  good. 
Rheumatic  pains  attacked  alike  both  the  righteous  and  the 
evil-doer.  But  Bridlington  held  that  the  lot  of  the  evil" 
doer  must  not  be  softened. 

"Bricks,  bricks,  bricks,"  murmured  Sally;  and  when,  as 
inspector,  she  came  to  inquire  into  cases  nearly  every  one 
of  them  proved  deserving.  The  only  ones  a  little  less  de- 
serving than  the  others  were  those  of  the  really  fat  people 
— which  would  have  been  strange,  if  it  had  not  been  that 
Sally  was  her  father's  daughter. 


VIII 

PAMELA  talked  a  good  deal  of  London  and  what  she  had 
done  there,  but  not  so  much  as  Sally  had  expected.  There- 
fore at  ten  o'clock  of  every  night  she  sat  on  Pamela's  bed 
awaiting  confidences,  although  not  forcing  them.  She 
talked  gaily  of  things — things  from  which  she  could  easily 
switch  off  at  a  moment's  notice.  At  last  Pamela  told  her 
something  to  which  she  attached  tremendous  importance, 
and  from  Mrs.  Masters'  goloshes  she  switched  off  at  once 
on  to  the  man  rather  different  from  other  men,  whom 
Pamela  had  met  one  night  out  at  dinner. 

Yes,  Sally  knew  the  sort;  women  nearly  always  mar- 
ried him.  She  shifted  her  position  on  Pamela's  bed  to 
one  of  the  greatest  comfort,  anticipating  a  lengthy  stay. 

"How  do  you  know  the  sort?"  asked  Pamela,  resenting 
Sally's  eyes  which  danced  to  the  accompaniment  of  her 
laughter. 

"Instinct,"  said  Sally.  "Go  on.  Did  you  ask  him  by 
chance  if  he  knew  this  dear  Panslea  of  ours?" 

Pamela  admitted  it,  and  Sally  was  glad.  It  showed 
for  all  her  gaiety  that  Pamela  did  love  her  father,  her 
home,  and  Jaunty.  It  was  about  Jaunty,  by  the  way,  she 
particularly  wanted  to  speak.  The  man  different  from 
other  men  said  he  knew  of  Panslea,  and  as  he  said  it  he 
laughed.  He  added,  Didn't  two  very  pretty  girls  live 
there — brought  up  by  a  butler? 

"What  did  you  say  then,  Pamela?"  asked  Sally,  and 
Pamela  said  she  corrected  him  gently.  The  girls  weren't 
pretty — exactly;  and  the  butler  wasn't  a  butler — exactly. 
Then  the  M.D.F.O.M.  asked  if  their  father  was  a  real 
father,  and  Pamela  vowed  she  said  he  wasn't.  That  he 
was  a  story-book  father;  a  fairy  Story-book  father — that 

85 


86  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

there  wasn't  another  like  him  in  the  world,  and  he  wasn't 
in  the  least  proper.  But  the  question  of  Jaunty?  What 
was  that?  Sally  wanted  to  know.  Pamela  said,  Would 
she  promise  not  to  jump?  Sally  promised,  although  a 
spring  bed  was  a  temptation. 

"Well,  don't,"  she  said,  and  Sally  promised. 

Pamela  was  going  to  tell  her  in  one  moment,  but  first  of 
all  she  must  do  up  Sally's  hair  to  see  what  she  would  look 
like  when  she  in  her  turn  came  to  sit  next  a  man  different 
from  other  men,  and  Sally  with  her  hair  wound  round  her 
head  looked  like  a  ridiculously  delicious  baby,  ready  for 
her  bath. 

"Now  proceed,"  she  said,  nodding  her  top-heavy  head. 

"Well,  my  child,  it's  this — don't  jump!"  Pamela  laid 
a  restraining  hand  on  Sally's  knee.  "Do  you  think  Jaunty 
is  a  poor  relation  of  ours?" 

"No,  why  on  earth?"  exclaimed  Sally. 

"Because — I  don't  know — he's  such  a  dear  and  such  a 
bad  butler,  isn't  he?  Just  the  sort  of  butler  a  relation 
of  Daddy  Long  Legs  would  be — most  frightfully  willing 
and  anxious  to  give  satisfaction." 

"But  why  do  you  want  to  know  now?"  asked  Sally. 

"Because  this  man — I  may  have  to  tell  him  everything — 
and  suppose,  just  suppose,  I  had  to  say  Jaunty  was  .  .  ." 

"Would  he  mind?" 

"Who,  Jaunty?" 

"No,  the  man." 

"He  would.  He's  very  conventional.  He  isn't  like  other 
people,  he  has  no  badly  off  relations  at  all." 

"He  would  mind  Jaunty  being  .  .  ." 

"Of  course !" 

Sally  was  wondering  what  sort  of  a  relation  Jaunty 
could  be.  "We  aren't  in  the  least  like  him,"  she  said, 
gazing  at  Pamela. 

"Only  in  ways,  perhaps,"  admitted  Pamela;  "an  uncle 
he  might  have  been,  by  marriage.  One  can  amass  the 
quaintest  relations  that  way." 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  87 

"He's  poor,  of  course/'  said  Sally,  "but  I'm  sure  he's 
not  a  relation,  he  approves  so  frightfully." 

"Of  us?"  asked  Pamela. 

Sally  nodded. 

"If  we  gave  a  dinner-party,  would  he  approve  of  that?" 
asked  Pamela. 

"We  shouldn't  dare!"  gasped  Sally.  There  were  limits 
to  Jaunty 's  affection. 

"We  do  dare.     So  think  about  it;  go  to  bed  and  think." 

Sally  went  to  bed  promising  to  consider  the  menu.  Sally 
considering  a  menu!  The  absurdity  of  it,  when  bread 
and  butter  and  brown  sugar  was  the  food  she  loved  best, 
and  always  had,  when  her  father  and  Pamela  were  out  to 
lunch,  which  was  not  often. 

Pamela  lay  in  bed  and  considered  the  menu.  The  menu 
itself  presented  no  difficulties.  She  knew  several  by  heart. 
She  had  dined  at  restaurants;  at  many  friends'  houses. 
She  had  learnt  by  short  experience  how  surprising  a  thing 
a  dinner  could  be.  Bad  where  you  might  expect  it  good. 
Good  where  you  were  certain  it  would  be  bad.  A  menu 
was  one  thing;  Serena's  culinary  efforts  another. 

Then  flashed  upon  Pamela  the  thought  of  Mademoiselle ! 
A  Frenchwoman  in  bed  must  be  better  than  an  English- 
woman up — ten  times  better. 

It  was  nearly  eleven  o'clock.  The  clock  on  the  staircase 
had  just  struck  two,  which  meant  that  it  was  seventeen 
minutes  to  eleven.  It  was  quite  early.  Mademoiselle  must 
be  interviewed.  It  took  a  second  only  for  Pamela  to  slip 
her  arms  into  her  dressing-gown  and  her  feet  into  her 
slippers,  and  along  the  passage  she  padded.  Opening 
Mademoiselle's  door  softly  she  peeped  in — and  there  was 
Mademoiselle  sleeping  peacefully  in  the  beam  of  moon- 
light that  lay  across  her  bed.  She  was  smiling.  She 
might  be  dreaming  of  cooking.  Pamela  was  sure  she  must 
be.  So  she  laid  her  hand  gently  on  the  little  white  hand 
that  lay  on  the  quilt,  and  murmured  very  distinctly,  "Ome- 
lette." And  sure  enough  Mademoiselle  stirred  and  said 


88  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

very  softly,  but  very  distinctly,  "Aux  pointes  d'asperges." 

Pamela  committed  that  to  memory  and  said  very  softly, 
very  distinctly,  "Entree." 

"Come  in,"  said  Mademoiselle,  opening  her  eyes.  "Mon 
enfant!"  she  exclaimed.  There  was  an  immense  tender- 
ness expressed  in  her  voice;  so  much  so  that  Pamela  said, 
"Ce  n'est  pas  Salade  *  .  .  c'est  moi.  Pomme  a  la  .  .  ." 

By  that  time  Mademoiselle  was  awake  and  she  smiled 
her  Pamela  smile,  which  was,  if  not  quite  her  best,  quite 
good  enough  and  quite  as  good  as  Pamela  deserved. 

"Mademoiselle,  I  am  in  love,"  explained  this  apparition 
bathed  in  moonlight,  her  eyes  shining  like  stars  set  in  the 
heavens. 

"In  love!"  ejaculated  Mademoiselle,  as  if  it  were  a  thing 
unthought-of,  whereas  she  and  Sally  had  gone  so  far  as 
to  discuss,  not  only  love,  but  its  cloaks  and  habits,  shoes 
and  silk  stockings — a  trousseau  in  fact. 

"Pour  le  moment,"  added  Pamela,  "and  he  is  coming 
down  to  see  how  I  grow  in  my  own  garden,  and  Serena 
can't  cook." 

Mademoiselle  admitted  it.  She  would  never  have  said 
so  because  of  her  love  for  Mr.  Lawrence.  If  le  bon  Dieu 
had  given  him  the  digestion  of  an  ostrich  it  was  not  for 
her  to  complain.  She  would  not  have  said  anything,  even 
now,  if  Pamela  had  not  herself  said  it. 

Pamela  knew  that.  "But  you,  Mademoiselle,  are  a 
Frenchwoman,  and  all  Frenchwomen  ..." 

Mademoiselle  raised  a  hand  in  protest. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Pamela,  "but  one  Frenchwoman  in 
bed  is  worth  two  Englishwomen  in  the  kitchen — Pascal 
thought  it.  You  yourself  suggested  Omelette  aux  pointes 
d'asperges.  You  were  dreaming  of  it,  and  if  you  dream 
of  it  you  can  certainly  cook  it.  The  stuff  our  dreams  are 
made  of — you  know!  Some  one  says  that." 

It  was  strange,  Mademoiselle  had  thought  it  was  of 
Sally  she  had  been  dreaming. 

"Non,  non,"  said  Pamela  emphatically,  "of  Salade  .  .  . 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  89 

je  vous  assure/'  and  Mademoiselle  gave  in  as  every  one 
did  when  Pamela  willed  it  so.  By  twelve  o'clock  it  was 
arranged  that  on  the  day  of  the  dinner  Mademoiselle's 
sofa  should  be  placed  in  the  kitchen,  or  anywhere  most 
convenient,  and  on  her  lap  she  should  make  an  omelette, 
mix  sauces,  and  so  repay  Mr.  Lawrence  something  of  all 
he  had  done  for  her. 

Pamela  went  to  bed  and  to  sleep.  Not  so  Mademoiselle. 
She  was  in  bed;  but  she  could  not  sleep.  She  had  put  all 
her  eggs  into  one  omelette. 

The  dinner  was  arranged.  Serena  pacified;  there  re- 
mained Jaunty  to  cajole.  He  took  it  better  than  Pamela 
expected,  except  when  help  was  suggested.  There  he  was 
firm.  If  it  must  be  done,  he  could  do  it  alone.  But  Pamela 
was  as  firmly  determined  that  the  coachman  must  be  there, 
if  only  behind  the  scenes.  And  if  there  should  be  jelly — 
which  there  wouldn't  be — he  mustn't  say  "Whoa!"  to  it 
because  it  had  been  said  by  Sidney  Smith's  coachman.  So 
it  would  be  plagiarism  if  Jaunty  allowed  it.  He  must 
make  that  clearly  understood. 

"But  if  he's  behind  the  scenes  and  there  is  no  jelly?" 
said  Jaunty,  seeking  an  escape. 

"It  would  still  be  plagiarism,  worse  than  ever,  if  there 
wasn't  a  jelly.  It's  a  saying  that  has  been  said  once  and 
for  all.  Lots  of  sayings  can  be  said,  and  are  said,  hun- 
dreds of  times  by  hundreds  of  different  people,  but  not 
this  one." 

Jaunty  determined  to  say  nothing  about  it.  To  begin 
with,  he  didn't  quite  know  what  plagiarism  meant.  It 
wasn't  a  word  used  when  he  was  in  business.  There  was 
another  word  used  then,  which  he  used  now.  It  was  as 
expressive  now  as  it  had  been  then,  and  had  lost  nothing 
from  want  of  use.  He  had  forgotten  the  very  excellent 
sound  of  it.  He  said  it  twice,  and  would  have  said  it 
again  had  he  been  so  minded.  But  the  relief  he  sought 
was  his  at  the  second  saying,  so  he  left  it  at  that. 

Mr.  Lawrence  made  no  objection  whatever  when  the  din- 


90  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

ner  was  suggested.  He  would  have  been  as  willing  to  wel- 
come twenty  guests  as  one.  He  didn't  know  any  difficulty 
existed.  He  didn't  know  Serena  wasn't  a  good  cook;  he 
knew  she  was  a  most  excellent  woman.  She  came  for  less 
money  because  she  had  a  wooden  leg,  not  because  she 
was  a  bad  cook.  The  leg! — what  did  that  matter,  except 
the  loss  to  herself?  The  sympathy  he  felt  for  her,  and 
every  one  felt  for  her,  must  be  a  gain. 

What  troubled  him  was  that  Pamela  should  care  for 
any  man  not  her  father.  How  had  she  grown  up  without 
his  knowing  it?  It  meant  that  time  was  passing  quickly, 
and  yet,  judging  by  the  wound  that  was  slow  to  heal,  time 
stood  still. 

What  if  Pamela  married?  Who  was  there  to  tell  her 
things,  to  warn  her?  To  guard  her  against  sorrow  and 
disappointment  ? 

If  she  should  come  to  him  he  could  tell  her  of  nothing 
but  joy  and  happiness,  warn  her  against  nothing  but  the 
awful  separation  that  might  come  when  she  and  the  one 
she  loved  were  most  happy.  And  that  he  hadn't  the  heart 
to  do,  knowing  too  well  the  anguish. 

Yet  his  relations  had  hinted  to  him  that  he  wasn't  doing 
his  duty  in  not  warning  Pamela  and  Sally — against  what? 

What  could  he  warn  Sally  against?  She  was  a  happy,  a 
wonderful  child.  Why  should  he  suggest  evil?  Living  as 
she  did  in  the  village,  with  sorrow  at  her  very  gates,  she 
knew  sin  and  wickedness  existed;  but  from  the  lips  of 
mothers  she  heard  that  it  was  seldom  meant.  From  the 
lips  of  wives,  that  bad  men  were  only  bad  because  they 
were  unfortunate.  No  husband,  hardly,  was  intentionally 
bad,  given  a  fair  chance.  And  Sally,  looking  into  the  worn 
faces  of  the  women  who  pleaded  for  the  best  in  their  bad 
men,  drew  her  own  wise  conclusions.  And  putting  two 
and  two  together  she  made  a  sandwich  of  her  little  world. 
If  there  was  sin,  on  either  side,  quite  close  to  it  there  was 
also  goodness.  What  wiser  than  this  could  Mr.  Lawrence 
teach  Sally? 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  91 

He  said  something  of  this  kind  to  the  children's  aunt, 
and  she  said,  "You  and  your  children  are  content  then  to 
live  in  a  fairyland?" 

"While  we  are  still  young!"  pleaded  Mr.  Lawrence, 
with  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  and  the  aunt  gave  him  up  in 
despair. 

To  the  fairyland  was  coming  a  prince.  Whether  he 
would  trample  down  the  rose-hedge  that  bounded  the  fairy- 
land on  all  sides  remained  to  be  seen.  He  might  step  over 
it  gracefully  without  brushing  the  petals  from  the  blooms. 
There  was  the  chance  that  he  might  not,  a  chance  sug- 
gested so  persistently  by  Aunt  Venetia,  that  poor  Mr.  Law- 
rence determined  to  warn  Pamela  and  Sally  of  dangers. 

Their  aunt  held  him  responsible  if  he  didn't. 

So  up  to  Sally's  room  he  went  one  night.  Sally  was  in 
bed.  That  was  bad  enough.  It  was  difficult  to  be  serious 
with  Sally  in  bed.  But  worse  still  Pamela  was  there  too. 
Side  by  side  they  sat,  looking  like  two  babies  in  a  peram- 
bulator. Under  their  lashes  Pamela's  eyes  laughed  at  him. 

He  was  much  too  serious,  much  too  frightened,  to  notice 
that.  He  pulled  up  a  chair  to  the  side  of  the  bed  next 
Sally.  He  felt  safer  there. 

"Darling  old  Daddy  Long  Legs,"  she  said,  looking  at 
him  with  immense  friendliness,  "what  is  it?  What  is  it?" 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  in  it  she  placed  the  end  of 
her  long  pigtail.  It  made  an  excellent  "pretence  paint- 
brush," and  from  the  time  Sally's  pigtail  had  been  long 
enough  to  play  the  part,  Mr.  Lawrence  had  pretended  to 
paint  her  face  with  it.  It  was  a  dear  old  game,  and  here 
was  Sally  with  her  face  all  screwed  up  ready.  But  Mr. 
Lawrence  was  in  no  merry  mood  to-night.  Very  seriously 
he  said,  "I  want  to  warn  you,  my  darlings." 

Sally  rounded  her  eyes.  Pamela  narrowed  hers.  Sally 
told  him  he  was  doing  it  beautifully.  She  felt  religious 
and  squiggly  all  down  her  back.  It  was  a  hopeless  posi- 
tion. He  looked  from  Pamela  to  Sally,  from  Sally  to 
Pamela.  Then  came  nobly  Sally  to  the  rescue. 


92  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

"Is  it  about  motors — round  the  Yellow  Hammer  hill?" 
she  suggested,  "the  dangerous  corner,  perhaps?" 

"Yes,  darling,  they  are — tarring  the  road." 

"Thank  you  for  telling  us,  darling,"  said  Sally  gravely. 
"We  will  keep  clean  and  unspotted  by  the — tar.  Good- 
night, you  dear  old  blessing,"  and  Mr.  Lawrence  went  feel- 
ing smaller  and  taller  and  clumsier  than  he  had  ever  felt 
in  his  life  before,  and  that  was  saying  a  good  deal.  The 
lightness  of  Sally's  touch  had  put  him  to  shame. 

"Sally!"  exclaimed  Pamela,  when  their  father  had  gone. 

"We  must  keep  clean,  Pamela,  souls  and  bodies,  minds 
and  frocks — that's  all  the  darling  wanted  to  say  and 
couldn't.  I'm  not  surprised  mother  loved  him  so  much — • 
but  how  he  needs  her.  Now  go  to  your  own  bed  and  let 
me  sleep." 

Pamela  went  to  her  bed,  and  poor  Daddy  Long  Legs 
went  down  stairs  and  into  the  room  which  was  always 
empty,  and,  sitting  down  in  his  chair,  he  thought  back 
through  the  years  that  seemed  but  yesterdays.  His  wife — 
the  mother  of  his  children — how  easily  he  conjured  up  the 
radiance  of  her  beauty !  How  distinctly  he  heard  her  voice 
— her  laughter.  How  clearly  he  saw  her  playing  with  her 
first  baby,  the  miraculous  Pamela.  Then  singing  to  Sally, 
less  of  a  miracle  perhaps,  but  even  more  wonderful,  for 
she  was  younger  and  smaller  and  more  absurdly  like  her 
father.  Her  father  had  disputed  that.  It  was  their  mother 
he  had  looked  for  in  his  children — then,  as  now.  In  little 
ways  it  was  Pamela  now  who  reminded  him  most  of  her 
mother,  in  the  movements  of  her  hands,  in  the  manner  of 
her  talking.  But  in  Sally  it  was  her  tenderness,  her  hon- 
esty, her  happiness  that  he  found  the  likeness  most  strik- 
ing, most  strongly  developed. 

Jaunty,  distrusting  these  reveries  by  night,  stole  into  the 
library,  and  seeing  Mr.  Lawrence  deep  in  thought,  as  he 
had  suspected,  began  to  search  for  something,  fidgeting 
among  the  books  and  papers,  a  habit  of  his  he  knew  Mr. 
Lawrence  detested. 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  93 

"What  is  it,  Jautaty?     It's  not  there." 

"Your  slippers,  sir." 

"You  won't  find  them  inside  a  book — the  puppy  proba- 
bly !  We  must  get  rid  of  that  puppy,  Jaunty." 

"By  the  time  we  have  persuaded  some  one  to  give  it  a 
kind  home,  sir,  it  will  no  longer  be  a  puppy.  Time  mends 
the  ways  of  puppies.  But  your  slippers,  sir;  you  are  not 
by  chance  wearing  them?" 

Of  course  he  was.  It  was  one  of  the  things  Aunt  Vene- 
tia  most  deeply  deplored.  "If  his  wife  had  lived,"  she 
often  said,  "it  would  never  have  happened." 

Jaunty  having  found  the  slippers  on  the  feet  of  his  mas- 
ter, where  he  had  known  them  to  be,  stayed  to  talk,  and 
left  Mr.  Lawrence  reading  the  paper.  "Anything  better 
than  thoughts,  even  politics,"  said  Jaunty  to  himself  as  he 
went  away.  "A  man  without  a  wife,  the  less  he  dwells 
on  it  the  better." 

"I  have  warned  the  children,"  said  Mr.  Lawrence  to  a 
friend  he  met  in  the  village.  "It's  a  difficult  task  for  a 
father." 

"It's  a  beautiful  task,  I  am  sure,  or  you  would  make  it 
so,"  murmured  the  friend  in  whom  he  chanced  to  confide. 

"Dear  things,"  said  their  father.  "It  is  difficult  to  be- 
lieve that  the  children  we  have  watched  and  loved  since 
they  were  babies  need  know  of  the  existence  of  sin.  Since 
we  have  known  them  we  have  learnt  so  much  more  than 
we  ever  knew  of  things  that  are  good  and  lovely,  that  sin 
seems  to  have  become  less  of  a  reality.  For  a  man  with 
daughters  surely  it  has  less  power  than  it  ever  had — I 
mean  .  .  ." 

And  the  one  in  whom  he  chanced  to  confide  blew  her 
nose,  and  said  something  about  Mr.  Lawrence  being  a  dear 
man  and  unlike  the  rest  of  the  world  of  men,  and  Mr. 
Lawrence  taking  fright  at  that — for  all  his  simplicity  he 
was  alive  to  certain  dangers — disappeared  round  the  first 
corner,  and  the  one  in  whom  he  had  chanced  to  confide, 


94  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

or  chosen  to  confide  (it  would  be  a  disputed  point  in  Pans- 
lea),  put  up  her  umbrella  and  walked  away.  There  was 
no  sun  and  it  wasn't  raining;  but  there  are  more  reasons 
than  two  for  using  an  umbrella. 


IX 


"You  will  meet  him  yourself,  miss,"  said  Jaunty  to  Pamela, 
who  thought  not.  It  would  look  a  little  too  eager. 

"Shall  I?"  suggested  Sally.  And  Jaunty  demurred.  In 
the  circumstances  he  knew  the  best  thing  that  could  hap- 
pen was  that  Miss  Pamela  should  marry,  and  he  was  quite 
willing  she  should  go  all  the  way  to  meet  the  man  who  was 
coming  down  for  the  night,  and  for  whom  souffles  and 
omelettes  must  be  made.  No  souffle  could  rise  higher  than 
the  hope  in  Jaunty 's  heart,  for  ever  since  that  night  in 
the  restaurant  at  Soho  he  had  seen  a  vague  danger  looming 
in  the  distance. 

He  had  no  control  over  Miss  Pamela,  never  had  had  if 
he  would  but  own  it — whereas  Miss  Sally  was  another 
thing  altogether. 

But  wouldn't  a  drive  alone  with  Miss  Sally,  in  her  beau- 
tiful cart,  distract  the  gentleman  from  his  allegiance  to 
the  elder  sister?  It  seemed  to  Jaunty  inevitable. 

But  Pamela  said  Sally  must  go  if  she  liked,  and  Sally 
liked  extremely. 

So  she  harnessed,  or  caused  to  be  harnessed,  her  fat 
pony  to  the  inspector's  cart,  and  off  she  went.  There  was 
an  armchair  home  for  repairs.  Sally  suspected  violence, 
not  on  the  part  of  the  invalided  old  woman  to  whom  the 
chair  had  been  so  lately  loaned,  but  on  the  parts  of  her 
grandchildren  who  had  used  it  as  a  happy  playground, 
for  youth  loves  springs. 

However,  the  chair  was  there,  and  Sally  took  it  for  the 
august  visitor  to  sit  upon.  What  more  of  state  could  he 
desire?  The  chair  was  covered  in  red. 

It  was  a  lovely  day,  a  lovely  day  of  June.  Just  the  kind 
of  sweet-scented  day  Sally  loved.  From  Josephsofat's 

95 


96  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

point  of  view,  the  day  was  too  hot  for  its  hours,  and  he 
personally  saw  no  reason  to  hurry.  So  between  the  hedges, 
deep  down  in  a  leafy  lane,  Josephsofat,  hugged  by  two 
stout  shafts,  walked.  He  ignored  the  cart  he  drew,  al- 
though he  loved  the  girl,  who  sat  in  the  chair,  that  stood 
in  the  cart,  and  was  pleased  to  imagine  she  drove  him. 
That  the  chair  had  a  broken  spring  was  no  affair  of  his, 
although  he  would  have  known  better  than  to  ask  a  visitor 
of  distinction  to  sit  upon  it. 

Josephsofat  was  cross,  and  Sally  knew  it.  So  she  didn't 
draw  his  attention  to  the  heavens  above,  although  if  she 
had  done  so,  he  would  have  admitted  gratitude  to  the  in- 
trepid young  branches  overhead,  who  in  reaching  from  one 
side  of  the  lane  to  shake  hands  with  branches  on  the  other, 
made  in  their  impetuosity  a  welcome  shade  overhead  for 
wayfarers  such  as  he.  Wayfarers  so  fat! 

Josephsofat  whenever  he  was  so  minded  tugged  at  the 
grasses  on  the  banks  at  either  side  of  the  lane.  "Darling, 
go  on,"  urged  Sally,  "you  are  not  in  exactly  an  official  posi- 
tion to-day;  but  you  must  hurry  up  for  all  that.  Aunt 
Pamela  has  a  lover,  and  if  he  doesn't  propose  before  three 
o'clock  the  shade  will  be  off  the  lawn,  and  Aunt  Pamela 
never  does  what  Jaunty  wants  her  to  do  when  it's  hot — 
hurry  up!" 

Seeing  the  sense  in  this,  having  no  particular  use  for 
Aunt  Pamela,  Josephsofat  hurried  up,  and  for  a  few  min- 
utes his  little  shoes  made  busy,  thudding  sounds  on  the 
sandy,  rutty  road;  then  repenting  him  of  his  effort  he 
slowed  down. 

The  cart  he  drew  was  just  what  Sally  had  planned  it 
should  be.  It  was  of  the  kind  costers  drive  in  their  dreams. 
It  was  painted  bright  green,  with  red  wheels,  and  on  one 
of  the  shafts,  which  so  tightly  hugged  Josephsofat,  was 
written  in  neat  lettering,  for  all  who  walked  that  side  to 
read,  "S.  Lawrence,  Inspector  of  Springs  and  Stuffings." 
To  Sally  there  was  nothing  unusual  either  in  herself,  her 
cart,  or  her  pony. 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  97 

To  Arnold  Monk  they  were  so  unusual,  all  three  of 
them,  that  the  sight  of  them  took  his  breath  away. 

Then  he  saw  the  armchair,  or  rather  realised  its  exist- 
ence, for  it  was  only  when  Sally  asked  him  to  step  up  and 
sit  in  it  that  he  really  noticed  it.  Sally  begged  him  to  sit 
to  the  left — gently — the  spring  was  going  to  be  mended; 
in  fact,  she  had  no  right  to  use  the  chair  for  private  pur- 
poses, but  as  it  was  in  Pamela's  good  cause  .  .  . 

"Cause?"  asked  Arnold,  stepping  gingerly  on  to  the  iron 
step  which  gave  under  his  weight.  Sally  hadn't  meant 
cause.  Was  there  luggage? 

Of  course  there  was.     He  had  come  for  the  night. 

Sally  knew  that.  She  only  wanted  to  know  what  kind 
of  a  box  or  bag  it  was,  because  the  old  carrier  would  fetch 
it.  At  least  he  used  to  be  a  carrier,  and  he  would  still 
bring  the  wrong  box  if  he  got  the  chance.  But  he  was  a 
dear  old  thing  and  was  very  sorry  when  he  did. 

"And  if  it  doesn't  come?"  said  Arnold,  "the  luggage?" 

"Oh,  it  will,  somehow  or  other.  But  the  old  man  must 
be  given  the  chance." 

"Ready?"  asked  Sally,  seating  herself  on  the  shaft  at 
his  feet.  And  off  they  went,  or  rather  Josephsofat  went. 
"How  delicious  of  him!"  said  Sally. 

"What's  delicious  of  him?"  asked  Arnold. 

"Why,  to  go!" 

"Doesn't  he  always?" 

"Well  no,  not  always.  You  wouldn't  expect  him  to, 
would  you?" 

"Yes,  of  course." 

"Would  you?    And  what  about  his  individuality?" 

"What  about  it?" 

"Are  you  not  modern  in  your  ideas  of  bringing  up  chil- 
dren ?" 

Arnold  Monk  said  he  had  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
bringing  up  of  children. 

"How  far  is  it?"  he  asked  of  this  child  who  had  plainly 
not  been  brought  up  in  the  way  he  thought  she  should  go. 


98  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

Sally  said  it  depended.  He  asked  on  what?  On  the  in- 
dividuality of  the  fat  pony? 

She  said  on  how  they  went.  They  could  go  by  the  com- 
mon. If  they  went  over  the  common  they  must  walk,  be- 
cause the  way  was  steep  and  the  sand  was  deep  and  Jo- 
sephsofat  was  old  and  independent  and  cross.  Walking 
presented  distinct  alleviations  to  Arnold  Monk,  and  he 
chose  the  common  way. 

Now  a  man  in  love  may  drive  with  the  woman  of  his 
choice  for  many  a  mile  suffering  a  considerable  discom- 
fort, but  it  takes  a  man  more  deeply  in  love  than  man  has 
ever  been  to  stand  looking  ridiculous — or,  for  the  matter 
of  that,  to  sit  looking  ridiculous — and  Arnold  Monk  wasn't 
even  in  love  with  Sally  when  he  started.  How  could  he 
be,  when  she  asked  him  to  drive  along  a  country  road, 
much  frequented,  seated  in  a  red  armchair?  Arnold  was 
nothing  if  not  conventional. 

His  conventionality,  at  times,  took  the  form  of  uncon- 
ventionality,  if  unconventionality  happened  to  be  the  fash- 
ion of  the  moment.  But  it  must  be  of  the  right  kind,  prac- 
tised by  the  right  people.  So  he  thought  for  the  first  mile 
of  the  drive  with  Sally.  For  exactly  seventeen  hundred 
and  sixty  yards  he  disliked  her.  But  during  the  next  mile 
or  so  these  feelings  of  righteous  indignation — for  so  he  felt 
them  to  be — gave  way  to  those  of  a  very  definite  tender- 
ness. He  began  to  long  to  do  things  for  this  charmingly 
attractive  child:  to  guard  her  from  danger,  to  warn  her, 
principally  against  unscrupulous  men  who  might  take  ad- 
vantage of  her  innocent  naivete.  What  if  a  man  less 
scrupulous  than  himself  drove,  as  he  was  driving,  with 
Sally  leaning  against  his  knees — almost?  The  thought  was 
sacrilege.  He  loved  the  little  brown  fingers  that  held  the 
reins,  the  thin  knuckles,  the  slender  wrists.  He  wondered 
he  had  never  considered  the  possibility  of  a  younger  sister 
such  as  this.  Pamela  had  spoken  of  her,  but  a  younger 
sister  than  Pamela  had  suggested  to  his  imagination  some 
one  just  a  little  less  pretty,  with  eyes  a  little  rounder, 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  99 

cheeks  a  little  pinker,  and  ways  far  less  engaging.  And 
why?  From  something  Pamela  had  said.  She  had  made 
gentle  fun  of  Sally,  just  as  she  had  done  of  Jaunty. 

Arnold  gazed  down  on  the  top  of  Sally's  hat.  It  had 
seen  better  and  sunnier  days.  It  was  burnt,  the  brim  was 
bent  down  where  it  was  not  supposed  to  bend,  and  the 
ribbon  that  encircled  the  crown  had  once  been  blue.  But 
he  found  the  hat  charming.  As  to  the  face  beneath  it,  he 
had  thought  it,  a  minute  ago,  when  it  was  turned  to  his, 
the  loveliest  thing  he  had  ever  seen.  Of  course  it  wasn't; 
but  the  day  was  a  day  in  June,  and  everything  was  the 
loveliest  any  one  had  ever  seen;  from  the  blue  of  the  un- 
clouded sky  to  the  wild  rose  that  blushed  in  the  hedge. 

And  God  meant  it  so.  He  means  it  so  every  June  day 
of  every  year,  and  what  was  Arnold  that  he  should  pit 
himself  against  his  Maker? 

And  as  to  the  Jauntys  of  this  world  they  must  be  more 
than  ordinarily  careful  in  June — that's  all. 

So  Arnold  went  on  thinking  Sally  the  loveliest  thing  he 
had  ever  seen,  and  he  would  have  enjoyed  it  if  he  hadn't 
come  down  to  propose  to  Pamela — and  Pamela  knew  it. 
And  Sally  possibly  knew  it  too.  It  spoilt  the  drive. 

He  wondered  what  she  was  thinking  of.  If  he  had 
asked  her  and  she  had  answered  truthfully  she  would  have 
said  of  her  bridesmaid's  frock.  It  would  be  the  first — ex- 
cept for  cotton  ones — she  had  had  for  ages.  There  was 
no  frock  of  Pamela's  into  which  any  one  would  dare  to 
force  her  on  such  an  occasion.  Not  even  Jaunty  with  his 
power  of  contrivance  would  dare  to  do  it. 

But  Arnold  didn't  offer  Sally  a  penny  for  her  thoughts, 
so  she  kept  them  for  a  rainy  day.  She  asked  him  instead 
of  what  he  was  thinking?  And  if  he  had  answered  truth- 
fully he  would  have  said,  Of  her.  But  he  didn't.  He  said 
he  was  thinking  of  luncheon,  and  no  thought  could  have 
distressed  her  more.  She  was  hoping  he  didn't  mind  what 
he  ate;  although  she  had  to  admit  he  didn't  look  in  the 
least  like  it. 


100  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

They  came  to  the  common  and  Sally  got  down.  So  did 
Arnold. 

"We  are  very  badly  off,"  she  said,  as  they  walked. 
Arnold  tried  to  make  light  of  the  subject,  which  jarred  a 
little,  and  he  said  he  knew  how  comfortable  a  thing  was 
poverty  in  some  circumstances. 

Sally  said  her  home  was  heavenly,  but  it  wasn't,  she 
imagined,  extraordinarily  comfortable.  "We  have  coffee 
after  luncheon- — and  the  Times.  It's  such  a  companion 
to  the  Daddy  Long  Legs;  he  carries  it  about  under  his 
arm,  and  it's  always  there  for  reference.  Then — what  was 
I  saying  ? — oh,  yes !  we  have  ponies  to  ride ;  but  we  never 
have  a  new  Bradshaw  or — new  carpets:  it  seems  all  right. 
Only  our  Aunt  Venetia  won't  come  to  stay.  You  see,  now 
that  She  has  gone  we  don't  quite  know — what  we  should 
have  .  .  ." 

"She?"  asked  Arnold,  treading  softly,  feeling  on  sacred 
ground.  The  drop  in  Sally's  voice  had  warned  him.  In- 
tuition was  his  if  he  lacked  understanding. 

"Mother,"  said  Sally;  "we  are  just  the  kind  of  children 
who  most  wanted  a  mother,  because  father  is  so  delicious; 
but  he's  no  older  than  we  are  and  much  more  in- 
nocent .  .  ." 

"More  innocent  than  you  are?" 

"Much,  much  more,"  said  Sally,  turning  her  eyes  upon 
her  companion,  and  in  their  depths  he  found  nothing  but  a 
profound  innocence,  and  realised  that  whatever  Sally  knew 
or  came  to  know,  the  innocence  would  remain,  being  a 
thing  apart  from  ignorance. 

"There's  Jaunty,"  said  Arnold. 

Sally  said,  Of  course.    He  was  very  wonderful. 

"But  he  isn't  really  a  butler,  is  he?"  asked  Arnold, 
remembering  what  Pamela  had  said. 

Here  was  Sally's  chance.  "No,  we  couldn't  call  him 
that;  but  he's  no  relation." 

"Relation?     Oh,  well— no." 

"You  didn't  think  he  was?" 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  101 

Arnold  said  he  had  never  for  one  moment  thought  such 
a  thing. 

"Pamela  only  wondered  .  .  ." 

"If  he  were  a  relation?" 

"Partly,  because  of  you — in  case  she  had  to  tell  you 
everything  .  .  ." 

"And  is  there  any  reason  she  should?" 

"You  ought  to  know/'  said  Sally,  treading  water. 

Arnold  laughed.  He  found  the  idea  of  Pamela  telling 
him  everything,  delicious.  He  could  not  imagine  a  day  in 
June  more  pleasantly  spent.  He  would  choose  a  cathedral 
of  beech-trees;  in  an  aisle  open  to  the  heavens  above  he 
would  sit  and  worship  at  the  shrine  of  Pamela's  beauty. 

They  were  out  of  the  wood  and  Sally  suggested  they 
should  get  into  the  cart.  Arnold  set  his  teeth  and  got  in. 

"I  hope  the  lunch  will  be  all  right,"  she  said  as  they 
drove  along. 

Arnold  was  certain  it  would  be.  She  said  he  had  no 
right  to  be  that.  What  he  ought  to  feel  was  that  he  didn't 
mind  if  it  wasn't. 

He  said  that  was  what  he  did  feel.    "Is  this  the  village?" 

She  said  it  was. 

"Are  we  near  your  home?" 

"Quite,  but  I'm  going  to  take  you  first  of  all  .  .  ." 

"Where?"    He  had  visions  of  a  tiresome  old  aunt. 

"Here." 

Josephsofat  stopped.  Sally  slipped  down  and  Arnold 
followed. 

They  were  at  the  gate  of  the  churchyard.  Arnold, 
deeply  embarrassed,  followed  her  down  the  narrow  path, 
over  the  grass,  stepping  as  carefully  as  she  stepped.  "I 
feel  I  must  bring  you  here,"  she  explained. 

In  silence  they  stood.  Arnold  feeling  incensed  and  out- 
raged, or  perhaps  shy.  He  could  never  bring  himself  to 
speak  of  his  mother's  death  to  any  one.  He  felt  it  too 
much.  And  here  he  was,  a  stranger,  with  Sally,  a  stranger, 
behaving  as  if  they  were  the  most  intimate  relations.  He 


102  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE   , 

didn't  know  what  to  say,  nor  did  he  know  that  Sally  didn't 
expect  him  to  say  anything.  She  picked  up  a  leaf  or  two, 
patted  the  grass  and  walked  away,  looking  so  happy,  as 
if  she  had  stood  hand  in  hand  and  spoken  with  some  one 
she  loved.  It  was  not  in  such  a  spirit  as  this  that  Arnold 
went  to  a  churchyard. 

"Now  you  will  know  us  better,"  said  Sally,  "and  will 
understand  the  lunch  better,  and  everything.  Let's  go, 
shall  we?" 

They  went,  and  in  a  few  minutes  they  reached  the  tall 
iron  gate  which  stood  open.  Sally  passed  through  it  into 
the  house.  With  a  wave  of  the  hand  she  introduced  Jaunty, 
who  stood  in  the  hall,  and  opening  a  door  on  the  left,  she 
said,  "And  good  Father  Lawrence." 

When  Mr.  Lawrence,  looking  long  and  searchingly  at 
Arnold  Monk,  told  him  he  liked  his  face,  there  was  noth- 
ing left,  if  Sally  had  but  known  it,  that  could  come  as  a 
shock.  After  that  Monk  was  prepared  for  anything,  ex- 
cept for  the  beauty  of  Pamela  who  stepped  in  from  the 
garden,  through  the  open  window.  He  triumphantly  found 
his  choice  justified. 

Sally  looked  on,  holding  her  breath.  Pamela  was  doing 
it  all  so  beautifully,  carrying  in  her  left  hand  a  bunch  of 
roses,  just  as  she  had  said  she  would  hold  them;  wearing 
a  white  frock  just  as  she  and  Sally  had  planned  she  should 
wear  it. 

"He  must,  he  must,  he  must  .  .  ."  murmured  Sally. 

"Thank  God,  he  does !"  murmured  Jaunty,  going  a  step 
farther,  and  Jaunty  was  on  the  right  road  this  time. 

By  luncheon  so  deeply  in  love  was  Arnold  that  the  ex- 
cellent disposition  of  Jaunty,  as  shown  by  the  way  in  which 
he  ran  with  the  souffle,  to  save  the  fall  of  two  inches,  was 
lost  upon  him  until  his  attention  was  drawn  to  it  by  Sally. 
"Would  a  butler  who  was  a  real  butler,  and  nothing  but 
a  real  butler,  run  with  a  souffle  to  save  .  .  .?" 

Arnold  hastened  to  say  that  only  a  man  of  very  excep- 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  103 

tional  character  would  do  it — be  he  butler  or  Prime  Min- 
ister. 

Whereupon  Sally  said  Jaunty  was  much  more  fitted  to 
be  the  one  than  the  other. 

From  Jaunty  to  the  souffle  was  a  step  only.  How  ex- 
cellent it  had  been — the  souffle.  Arnold  could  have  im- 
agined himself  in  Paris.  Sally  warming  to  his  praise  ad- 
mitted its  French  origin,  and  Arnold  reminded  her  of  their 
conversation  as  they  had  walked. 

"What  about  the  delightful  poverty?" 

"Poverty?"  she  exclaimed,  "but  this  is  an  evidence  of  it; 
the  cook  isn't  .  .  ." 

"A  real  cook?"  asked  Arnold. 

"No,  she  isn't.  The  souffle  was  made  by  a  sofa-ridden 
Mademoiselle." 

Arnold  looked  bewildered.  Sally  said  it  was  so  easy 
if  only  he  would  listen. 

"There  is  a  delightful  backyard  where  roses  ramble  and 
tradesmen  call,  and  into  this  backyard  we  wheeled  Made- 
moiselle's sofa.  We  ran  it  up  against  the  kitchen  win- 
dow. Through  the  window  English  Serena  hands  the  Eng- 
lish ingredients  to  the  French  Mademoiselle,  and  they  are 
returned  through  the  window  by  the  French  Mademoiselle 
a  French  chef-d'ceuvre.  It's  so  simple  if  only  people  knew." 

"There's  nothing  wrong  with  the  lunch,  is  there?"  asked 
Mr.  Lawrence  of  Sally,  and  Mr.  Monk  turned  to  Pamela. 

"Nothing,"  said  Sally,  sliding  her  hand  along  the  table 
and  taking  her  father's.  "Do  you  remember  when  Aunt 
Venetia  came,  and  we  were  so  clever  and  remembered  she 
didn't  take  sugar  because  of  her  rheumatisms,  and  we  told 
Serena  to  use  saccharine  instead?  And  do  you  remember 
how  horrible  the  rhubarb  was,  and  you — you  dear,  wonder- 
ful thing — ate  all  yours  and  didn't  complain?  And  when 
we  asked  Serena  about  it  she  said  it  had  been  so  difficult 
to  get  out  of  the  tube,  and  she  showed  us  the  tube,  and  it 
was  Seccotine;  do  you  remember,  darling?" 

Sally  cast  a  glance  at  Pamela.     She  was  talking  ear- 


104  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

nestly  to  Arnold  Monk,  and  he  was  listening  all  the  time 
to  Sally.  She  knew  it,  because  there  was  a  smile  lurking 
at  the  corners  of  his  mouth  that  didn't  in  the  least  har- 
monise with  the  tragedy  in  Pamela's  eyes,  but  which  went 
perfectly  with  the  Seccotine  story. 

"Is  Pamela  harrowing  you?"  asked  Sally. 

After  luncheon  Sally  suggested  that  her  father  should 
walk  down  the  village  with  her,  and  that  Jaunty  should  go 
to  the  post.  There  were  no  letters  to  post  so  she  wrote  one 
and  gave  it  to  Jaunty.  "Is  it  a  real  address,  miss?"  he 
asked. 

Sally  said  it  would  come  back  if  it  wasn't. 

"And  will  do  for  another  time?"  suggested  Jaunty. 
"What  I  mean,  miss,  is  this;  that  I  have  to  go  to  the  cob- 
bler, if  that  will  do  as  well  as  the  post." 

"Go  to  the — cobbler,  Jaunty." 

So  Jaunty  went  to  the  cobbler  and  Pamela  and  Arnold 
to  the  garden.  They  made  for  the  place  allotted  to  them 
by  Sally — not  only  in  the  garden,  but  in  life. 

Sally  eased  her  conscience  by  saying  she  knew  it  was 
the  only  thing  for  Pamela — marriage  with  a  wise  and 
sensible  man,  and  not  too  exciting  a  man.  Sally  felt  sure 
Arnold  wasn't  that. 

Sally  was  on  her  way  to  see  Anne  Beech,  but  before  she 
could  unburden  her  heart  to  Anne  she  had  to  get  rid  of 
her  father.  That  she  did  by  setting  him  and  the  gardener 
arguing  as  to  whether  a  tree  should  come  down  or  not. 
She  knew  it  would  take  the  better  part  of  the  afternoon 
not  to  decide  that.  And  while  it  was  not  being  decided 
she  went  to  see  Anne. 

"Anne,"  she  said,  "he's  come,  and  he's  very  nice — a 
little  dull  and  old,  perhaps"  (he  was  thirty),  "but  I  feel 
it  is  the  right  thing,  the  only  thing  for  Pamela.  She  says 
she  would  feel  it  to  be  her  duty  to  love  her  husband  what- 
ever he  might  be  like — so  long  as  he  could  give  her  what 
she  wanted.  She  owes  thirty  pounds  already." 

"Thirty  pounds!"  ejaculated  Anne. 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  105 

And  Sally  told  her  it  was  no  light  matter  or  laughing 
matter.  "Thirty  pounds,  dear  Anne,  if  you  haven't  got 
thirty  pounds,  is  a  vast  sum.  Quite  as  big  as  a  thousand 
pounds  you  haven't  got." 

"But  Sally,  my  child,  your  father  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  I  know,  he's  got  thirty  pounds,  even  more,  per- 
haps ;  but  you  see  it's  the  first  thirty  pounds  with  Pamela — 
there  will  be  many  another." 

Anne  asked  what  Jaunty  thought.  Sally  said,  in  a  sense, 
he  approved.  "He  chose  him,  as  a  matter  of  fact.  He 
went  up  to  see  Aunt  Venetia  and  he  looked  over  her  list 
of  young  men  and  he  took  steps  to  find  out  .  .  ." 

"Jaunty  did?  Found  out  about  his  character,  you 
mean  ?" 

"Yes,  father  never  would;  besides,  he  thinks  all  young 
men  are  good." 

Now  Sally  might  plant  and  pray  with  all  her  might, 
Mademoiselle  might  mix  and  stir,  Jaunty  might  serve  and" 
wait,  and  Mr.  Lawrence  might  look  on  and  bless,  but  there 
was  nothing  to  make  Pamela  promise  to  marry  Arnold 
Monk  unless  she  chose.  She  had  determined  to  do  so  until 
just  before  dinner;  then  his  eagerness  for  his  food  put  her 
off.  She  didn't  like  a  greedy  man.  So  she  told  Sally  after 
dinner  in  the  garden. 

Sally  with  the  wisdom  of  her  years  said,  Was  it  greedy 
to  want  dinner  that  was  already  three-quarters  of  an  hour 
late?  And  Pamela  said,  "Of  course.  He  should  have 
known  nothing  of  time." 

"Did  you  refuse  him,  Pamela?" 

Through  the  open  window  of  the  dining-room  Sally 
could  see  her  father  sitting  talking  with  such  charming 
ease  to  his  future  son-in-law.  He  was  perfectly  suited  to 
the  part.  He  must  play  it. 

"Did  you  refuse  him?"  she  repeated. 

"No,  Sally,"  whispered  Pamela,  "I  want  you  to  do  that; 
I  never  could  squash  even  a  bumblebee;  I  can't  hurt  him. 
Just  tell  him — I  can't  bear  it.  That  I  love  his  clothes  and 


106  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

everything  but  himself.  Do,  Sally,  there's  a  darling!  I'm 
going  to  bed." 

"You're  not,"  said  Sally,  barring  the  way  with  her  arms 
held  out. 

"You're  too  thin,  Scraggums,"  and  Pamela  ducked.  "You 
don't  want  me  to  marry  a  man  I  don't — love?" 

Sally  said,  Of  course  not.  But  would  she  ever  love  any 
man? 

She  wasn't  sure.  Freddy  Lincoln  was  coming  down  next 
week.  She  would  try  very  hard. 

"Another  lunch — another  dinner?"  gasped  Sally  horri- 
fied. 

Pamela  said,  No,  they  would  have  bacon  and  eggs  by 
moonlight — fry  them — and  if  Freddy  looked  greedy  by 
moonlight  it  wouldn't  show. 

Sally  said  there  wouldn't  be  a  moon,  and  Pamela  said 
that  was  what  she  meant.  There  never  was  at  moonlight 
picnics. 

Pamela  kissed  her  hand  and  was  gone. 

Sally  stood  alone,  thinking.     It  was  a  bad  business. 

"The  gentlemen,  miss,  are  looking  for  you  and  Miss 
Pamela,"  said  Jaunty  at  her  elbow. 

"Jaunty!"  she  said. 

"Yes,  miss." 

"She  doesn't  care  for  him." 

"Nor  I — quite.  Of  course,  there  are  things  in  his  fa- 
vour; but  if  she  doesn't  feel  quite  certain — we  must  go  on 
as  we  are." 

"Could  you  tell  him,  Jaunty?"  said  Sally  wistfully,  the 
weight  of  responsibility  crushing  her. 

"No — no,  miss;  he  thinks  I'm  a  butler — a  real  butler.'' 

Sally  said  he  couldn't  do  that,  because  they  had  told 
him.  "Did — he  tip  you,  Jaunty?"  she  asked,  hardly  daring 
to  say  the  words. 

"He  would — like  to,  miss." 

"Horrible,  horrible!  Of  course  Pamela  couldn't  marry 
him.  I'll  tell  him.  After  all  you've  been  to  us,  Jaunty!" 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  107 

This  was  another  moment  for  which  Jaunty  had  lived. 

"Pamela  is  tired/'  said  Sally  softly,  as  Arnold  Monk 
stepped  through  the  window  into  the  garden. 

"Tired?"  he  exclaimed,  with  deep  concern. 

"Very  tired/'  said  Sally,  taking  a  few  steps  forward. 

"Tired?"  repeated  Arnold,  following.  "Are  you  ever 
tired?" 

He  looked  at  the  slim  child,  wondering  at  the  fineness 
of  her  beauty. 

She  said,  Of  course  not.  She  wasn't  old  enough  to  be 
tired.  "Besides,"  she  added,  "I  haven't  had  to  undergo 
mental  distress.  That  is  what  wears." 

"Has  she?" 

"To-day,  yes !" 

"To-day?" 

"To-day.    Mr.  Monk,  do  you  care — for  her?" 

He  said  he  cared  very  deeply;  he  had  come  to  care  for 
them  all  very  deeply.  .  .  . 

"Well,  that's  it.  She  cares  for  you  so  much  that  she  is 
worried  she  can't  care  more." 

"And  she  has  deputed  you  to  tell  me?" 

Sally  said  she  had  asked  Jaunty  to,  but  it  seemed  hardly 
fair. 

"It's  not  as  if  he  were  a  real  butler,  is  it?"  said  Arnold. 

If  Sally  detected  petty  sarcasm  here  she  ignored  it. 

"No,  poor  Jaunty,  he  has  so  much  to  do."  She  stopped; 
a  briar  had  caught  in  her  frock;  Arnold  stooped  to  release 
her. 

"Sally,"  he  said,  "when  you  have  to  refuse  a  man  will 
you  do  it  yourself?" 

Sally  said  she  would  have  to.  There  would  be  no  one 
to  do  it  for  her. 

Arnold  said  he  was  very  sorry  for  the  man.  Sally  said 
she  would  be  very  kind  to  him. 

"That  would  be  cruel." 

"May  I  say  something?"  she  asked. 

She  leant  with  her  arms  on  the  old  sundial. 


108  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

"Do/'  he  said,  peeling  little  bits  of  lichen  off  the  stone. 

"Don't,"  she  said,  laying  her  hand  on  his,  "it's  so 
pretty." 

He  replaced  the  little,  grey,  crumbly  bits. 

"I  want  you  to  understand,"  said  Sally,  "that  we  are 
what  we  are  because  without  Her  it  seems  we  haven't  had 
quite  a  fair  chance — what  worldly  people  would  call  a  fair 
chance.  I  think  to  have  a  father  like  ours  is  a  most  won- 
derful thing.  But  he  perhaps  is  too  different  to  other  peo- 
ple. ...  I  think  it  right  to  be  quite  frank  with  you." 

Arnold  Monk  said  it  was  quite  right.  It  was  what  he 
wished. 

"And  quite  honest?" 

"Could  you  be  anything  else?" 

"With  teaching,  perhaps." 

"Go  on,  please." 

"Well,  when  Pamela  came  back  from  London  I  guessed 
there  might  be  something,  and  I  waited  and  waited,  but 
she  said  nothing.  Then  came  a  night  when  she  told  me  she 
had  met  a  man  different  from  other  men." 

"And  he?"  asked  Arnold. 

"Was  you." 

"Then  she  did— care?" 

Sally  nodded.  "Well,  I  prayed  that  night,  as  hard  as  I 
could,  that  you  might  be  the  right  one,  because — well,  for 
many  reasons." 

"Honest,  remember." 

"Well,  because  Pamela  needs  a  strong  and  a  good  man — 
and  a  man  who  can  give  her  all  she  wants." 

"You  are  honest?" 

"You  told  me  to  be.  Well,  I  am !  You  see,  Jaunty  and 
I  have  discussed  it.  It  seems  quite  fair.  You  have  much 
to  give,  and  you  get  Pamela.  We  think  that  rather  a  won- 
derful thing  to  get,  because — well,  she's  Pamela,  and  she's 
rather  a  delicious  thing  to  live  with — it's  soft  music  all  the 
time,  which  is  so  exciting.  So  I  arranged  that  Mademoi- 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  109 

selle —    Did  I?     I'm  not  sure."     Sally  paused — to  think. 

Arnold  said: 

"You  must  be  quite  honest;  perhaps  Jaunty  did?" 
"No,  Pamela  did;  but,  after  all,  it  doesn't  matter  who 

did,  does  it?" 

"So  long  as  Pamela  won't  marry  me." 

"If  she  changes  her  mind — shall  I  write?" 

Arnold  hastily   said  he  thought  not.      He  asked  if  he 

might  write  to  Sally — say  in  three  years — two  years? 
Sally  said  Pamela  would  be  twenty  by  then  and  certain 

to  be  married.     "But  do  write,  and  I  will  write  to  you  and 

tell  you  how  Josephsofat  is  getting  along.     It  will  be  very 

slowly  by  then." 

And  she  danced  away  in  the  moonlight  and  disappeared 

through  the  window.     Then  she  came  back  to  say  she  was 

sorry  she  had  danced  when  he  was  sad.     "Forgive  me!" 

and  she  held  out  her  hand,  and  for  one  moment  he  doubted 

her. 

She  went  away  again  and  he  watched  her  go  into  the 

lighted  room.    He  saw  her  go  up  to  her  father  and  put  her 

arms  round  him.     It  made  him  feel  lonely. 

When  Arnold  had  gone  to  bed,  Mr.  Lawrence   called 

Jaunty. 

"Jaunty,"  he  said,  "I  am  in  the  dark." 

Jaunty  put  out  the  lamp.     "It's  a  moth,  sir." 

"It's  a  bad  business,  Jaunty — poor  young  man.     Will 

he  feel  it?" 

"I'm  not  sure,  sir.     It  depends  on  at  what  hour  of  the 

day  he  goes  to-morrow.     If  he  waits  to  see  Miss  Sally  or 

if  he  goes  at  cockcrow." 
"Miss  Pamela,  you  mean?" 
"Did  I  say  Miss  Sally,  sir?    Well,  it  depends." 
"Which  will  mean,  what?"  asked  Mr.  Lawrence,  grop- 
ing. 

"Ah !"  said  Jaunty,  glad  of  the  darkness. 

"You're  a  wonderful  comfort  to  me,  Jaunty.     We're  not 

fit  to  bring  up  .  .  ." 


110  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

Jaunty  sniffed.  He  had  no  reason  to  think  so — of  him- 
self, at  all  events. 

"Good-night,  Jaunty;  it's  a  bad  business,  hurting  a  fel- 
low-creature like  that.  Let  me  know  if  he  goes  at  cock- 
crow, or  if  he  waits." 

At  cockcrow,  or  at  what  Jaunty  chose  to  call  cockcrow, 
Arnold  Monk  went.  Jaunty  saw  to  his  going,  and  Pamela, 
some  hours  later,  began  to  wonder  if  she  had  done  wisely. 
By  twelve  o'clock  she  was  sure  she  had  not.  By  five  she 
had  written  to  Freddy. 

A  month  later  she  was  engaged  to  Arnold  Monk — who 
in  the  meantime  had  written  and  re-written,  many  times 
over,  the  letter  he  was  going  to  send  at  the  end  of  two  long 
years  to  Sally.  On  the  day  of  his  engagement  he  tore  it 
up.  No  man  had  ever  been  more  surprised  than  he  was  to 
find  himself  engaged,  or  more  surprised  to  discover  him- 
self happy — considering  that  it  was  Sally  who  danced  in 
and  out  of  his  dreams. 


BEFORE  the  village  had  recovered  from  the  excitement  of 
Pamela's  engagement  it  had  wept  at  her  wedding.  Then 
it  dried  its  tears  and  thought  of  Sally.  With  no  Pamela 
to  distract,  it  could  concentrate  on  Sally,  who  after  all 
was  the  one  it  loved  best. 

On  the  night  of  Pamela's  wedding  there  rose  from  al- 
most every  bedside  in  Panslea  prayers  for  Sally.  If  she 
had  known  she  would  have  been  very  much  surprised,  and 
if  Jaunty  had  known  he  would  have  thought  it  impertinent 
interference,  being  quite  well  able  to  take  care  of  her  him- 
self. 

The  Vicar  prayed  that  the  beautiful  child  might  be 
spared — he  did  not  say  what.  He  left  that  to  the  Al- 
mighty, who  ordered  all  things  well.  Anne  prayed  that 
Sally  might  be  spared  for  Jimmy. 

Janet  prayed  that  Sally  might  be  spared  all  sorrow. 
She  left  nothing  to  chance. 

Mrs.  Hill  prayed  that  Sally  might  be  spared  to  be  the 
blessing  of  some  good  man;  and  no  one  prayed  for  Pamela. 

Jaunty  prayed  neither  for  Sally  nor  for  Pamela,  but 
rather  for  the  husband  of  Pamela,  and  that  long  and  ear- 
nestly. 

Within  a  fortnight  of  the  wedding  Sally  was  doing  ac- 
counts. "There  is  much  to  be  paid,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"and  but  little  to  pay  with,"  and  as  she  said  it  her  father 
came  into  the  room — the  Times  under  his  arm.  "It's  a 
great  thing,  Sally,"  he  said,  "to  know  that  Pamela  is  so 
happily  and  safely  married." 

"Um,"  said  Sally;  "safely"  seemed  so  ridiculous  a  word 
to  apply  to  any  state  in  which  Pamela  might  chance  to 
find  herself.  "Does  the  Times  say  so?  If  the  Times  says 
it  .  .  ." 

Ill 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

"No.  Seriously,  Sally,  it  is  a  great  comfort  to  me — and 
Jaunty." 

"Urn,"  repeated  Sally;  and  at  that  moment,  although 
she  didn't  know  it,  nor  did  her  father  imagine  it,  the  high 
iron  gate  was  gently  pushed  open  and  through  it  slipped 
the  happily  and  safely  married  Pamela. 

Jaunty  heard  the  gate  creak  on  its  hinges,  saw  it  open, 
saw  Pamela  walk  through  it,  and  then  he  closed  his  eyes 
on  a  troubled  world.  When  he  opened  them  again  there 
was  no  Pamela,  and  he  knew  he  had  been  dreaming. 

But  it  was  no  dream  of  Jaunty's  fevered  imagination. 
In  the  library,  standing  before  her  father  and  Sally,  was 
Pamela,  with  her  arms  held  out.  Laughter  in  her  eyes; 
love  on  her  lips;  beauty  in  every  gesture. 

"Go,  Sally,"  she  said,  with  the  authority  of  the  newly 
married  woman.  "Go!"  and  Sally  went — went  to  Jaunty. 
She  found  him  in  the  garden.  He  looked  old  and  drawn 
and  frightened — a  pitiable  old  bachelor. 

"She's  back,  Jaunty.  She  doesn't  like  it — I  knew  she 
wouldn't !" 

"Miss  Sally,  what  are  you  saying?  You  speak  without 
thought,  or  the  fear  of  God  in  your  heart." 

"It's  true,  for  all  that." 

And  it  was.  Jaunty  looked  at  Sally.  Sally  at  Jaunty. 
"I  could  always  manage  you/'  he  said. 

"Could  you?"  said  Sally,  doubting. 

Meanwhile  Pamela,  by  every  wile  she  possessed,  was 
trying  to  coax  her  father  into  seeing  things  from  her  point 
of  view.  "Daddy  Long  Legs,  I've  come  back. — Yes,  to 
stay.  .  .  ." 

"But  your  husband  .  .  .   ?" 

"Yes,  darling,  I  know;  but  I've  known  you  so  much 
longer.  ...  I  don't  care  for  being  married.  It's  not  what 
I've  been  accustomed  to.  I  was  much  happier  with  you 
and  Sally.  It's  so  dull!  It's  certainly  delightful  living 
with  some  one  who  always  has  stamps — even  two-penny- 
halfpenny  ones.  I've  never  once  been  sent  to  the  post 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  113 

office  since  I  was  married.  But,  darling,  I  really  like 
you  best,"  and  Pamela  kneeling  on  the  floor  put  her  arms 
round  her  father,  poor,  bewildered  man.  "And  isn't  it 
natural?"  she  went  on.  "It  would  be  horrid  of  me  to 
leave  willingly  a  father  who  has  been  so  darling  to  me 
all  these  years.  It  has  troubled  me  very  much  what  you 
must  have  thought  of  me.  Jaunty  should  have  prevented 
it,  and  Sally — I  cannot  imagine  what  they  were  about." 

"My  child,  wait  a  moment.  You  have  completely — 
Wait!" 

"While  you  consult  Jaunty?  Do!  But,  one  moment, 
darling;  you  must  listen  and  you  must  understand!  He 
finds  fault  with  the  food.  When  I  think  of  what  you  have 
eaten  for  our  sakes — for  Serena's — for  .  .  ." 

Her  father  laid  a  restraining  hand  on  hers.  "Not  that 
name — now  .  .  ." 

"But  She  would  understand,"  pleaded  Pamela.  "When 
you  married  Her,  did  you  send  for  the  manager  in  the 
best  hotel  in  Paris  and  complain  of  the  food?  Imagine 
such  a  thing — in  Paris,  too !  Now  go  to  your  Jaunty." 

And  to  his  Jaunty  he  went,  and  found  him  waiting 
outside  the  door.  Jaunty  led  the  way  to  the  dining-room. 
Mr.  Lawrence  followed.  Jaunty  closed  the  door  and  made 
certain  it  was  shut.  Then  he  faced  Mr.  Lawrence,  who 
said,  "Jaunty,  this  is  bad";  and  Jaunty,  pulling  himself 
together,  said: 

"It's — damnable,  sir,"  and  felt  much  the  better  for  it. 

"What's  to  be  done?" 

"Does  she  give  specific  reasons,  sir?" 

"Yes." 

Jaunty  paused  and  frowned.  Mr.  Lawrence  must  give 
him  a  lead  over  the  thin  ice.  He  was  a  married  man, 
Jaunty  was  a  bachelor,  and  had  never  wished  to  be 
otherwise. 

"Mr.  Monk,  it  seems,  complained  of  the  cooking — in 
Paris." 

"A  little  lacking  in  savoir  faire,"  said  Jaunty,  "in  Paris." 


114  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  ^ 

There  was  silence.  It  was  extraordinary  how  trouble- 
some Miss  Pamela  had  always  been,  thought  Jaunty.  "She 
has  no  graver  charges  to  bring?"  he  asked. 

"No,  none." 

"Ah!"  Jaunty  was  relieved.     "You  didn't  ask  her,  sir?" 

"I  asked  her  nothing,  Jaunty;  how  could  I?    It  is  .  .  ." 

"It  is." 

"It  is  indeed. — Jaunty !" 

Jaunty,  who  was  about  to  open  the  door,  stopped. 
"Sir?"  he  said. 

"She's  looking  very  beautiful." 

"It's  Paris,  sir.  My  sis  ...  I  mean  ...  I  say,  if  you 
want  to  keep  a  woman  quiet  dress  her  badly.  Dress  her 
well  and  she's  got  to  show  herself  off.  You  can't  keep 
her  in.  That's  why  dowdy  women  are  so  often  good,  and 
good  women  very  often  dowdy." 

"You  surprise  me,  Jaunty,"  said  Mr.  Lawrence. 

"I  should  be  sorry  to  do  that,  sir,  especially  at  such  a 
moment  as  this." 

And  Jaunty  smiled,  knowing  that  he  had  within  him 
the  power  to  surprise  Mr.  Lawrence  even  more.  But  the 
less  surprises  in  life  the  better,  he  thought,  and  he  went  to 
oil  the  hinge  of  the  front  gate.  Every  time  it  creaked  it 
reminded  him  of  Pamela's  return.  It  should  not  grumble 
at  her  going. 


XI 


JAUNTY  wondered  if  any  one  in  Panslea  had  seen  the 
return  of  the  lately-wed  Pamela  to  the  house  of  her  father. 
Was  Panslea  blind  that  Jaunty  should  doubt  it?  Of  course 
Janet  Mason  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  Pamela's  skirt  as 
she  had  passed  through  the  gate.  No  one  else  had  lately 
had  a  trousseau,  or  had  even  ordered  more  than  three  of 
anything  at  a  time,  and  there  wasn't  a  skirt  in  Panslea 
that  wasn't  much  too  full,  judged  by  the  dictates  of  the 
prevailing  fashion. 

Janet  carried  the  news  to  Anne  Beech,  and  Anne  rose 
from  her  weeding  suffering  most  plainly  from  blood  to  the 
head.  Her  charming  face  was  rosy  red  and  she  refused 
to  believe  that  Janet  had  seen  Pamela.  Her  good  common- 
sense  told  her  it  wouldn't  be  true. 

Janet  said  that,  at  first,  she  had  not  been  able  to  be- 
lieve her  eyes;  but  she  asked  Anne  if  she  was  given  to 
imagining  things,  and  Anne  was  bound  to  admit  she  was 
not.  But  here  Anne  was  certain  she  had.  It  was  imagina- 
tion, of  course.  What  else  could  it  be  ? 

"Pamela,"  said  Janet  stoutly. 

"If  it  was,"  said  Anne,  "I  think  the  less  we  say  about 
it  the  better,  for  the  present."  And  Janet  said  she  was 
never  in  a  hurry  to  talk  of  things  that  didn't  concern  her. 
Yet  she  had  run  all  the  way  from  Mr.  Lawrence's  house 
to  Anne's  cottage.  Anne  thought  it  would  be  an  aeroplane 
Janet  would  be  requiring  when  she  had  something  to  tell 
that  really  interested  her. 

But  Anne  was  cross;  she  was  worried.  Pamela  home 
again!  What  could  it  mean? 

She  went  up  the  village,  and  the  first  person  she  met 
was  Jaunty.  He  was  in  a  hurry.  When  he  was  in  a  hurry 

115 


116  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

he  rode  a  wooden  quadricycle.  It  was  as  unique  a  machine 
as  Jaunty  was  a  man.  When  Jaunty  was  once  mounted 
no  one  detained  him.  But  now  he  stood  at  the  side  of  the 
machine  with  one  foot  on  a  pedal,  and  he  made  time  to 
tell  Miss  Beech  that  Mrs.  Monk  was  back.  Anne  was 
surprised  that  he  admitted  it.  She  said  she  knew.  Miss 
Mason  had  told  her.  At  that  Jaunty  stiffened ;  Miss  Mason 
saw  too  much. 

Anne  said  it  was  a  little  difficult  not  to  see  Mrs.  Monk 
if  she  walked  through  the  iron  gate  right  in  the  sight  of  all 
Panslea.  Jaunty  took  exception  to  that.  Mr.  Lawrence's 
house  was  in  sight  of  only  one  quarter  of  Panslea.  From 
across  the  Green  the  Miss  Does  looked  into  its  very  door, 
but  they  were  short-sighted,  and  wouldn't  look  if  they 
weren't. 

From  one  corner  of  the  Green  any  one  who  chose  could 
look  into  Miss  Sally's  window.  From  the  other  corner 
any  one  who  dared  to  look  could  see  Mr.  Lawrence's.  Of 
course,  the  post  office !  Every  one  had  a  fine  view  from 
there,  sideways,  of  the  whole  house;  but  surely  there  were 
more  moments  in  the  day  than  one  in  which  to  post  a 
letter,  and  why  should  Miss  Mason  have  chosen  that  very 
one? 

"Jaunty,"  said  Anne,  "I  am  so  sorry — for  you  all." 

Jaunty  kicked  the  pedal  with  his  foot,  and  as  it  whizzed 
round  he  watched  its  revolutions.  Anne  watched  the  tired 
worn  face  of  the  old  man.  Then  he  suddenly  looked  up 
and  said,  "Why  sorry,  miss?  Mr.  Monk  had  to  go  away 
for  a  few  days — on  urgent  business — so  Miss  Pamela 
naturally  came  home  to  her — to  us.  To  whom  else  could 
she  have  gone?" 

"Oh,  that  was  it,"  said  Anne,  relieved  and  delighted,  yet 
doubting.  But  Jaunty  had  given  her  the  lead,  she  would 
follow. 

How  ridiculous  of  Janet  to  make  it  out  a  disaster!  In 
justice  to  Janet  she  hadn't.  She  had  only  run  to  say 
Pamela  was  home,  and  had  got  very  hot  in  the  running. 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  117 

"You  tell  that  to  Miss  Mason — and  every  one  you  meet, 
miss,"  said  Jaunty. 

And  Jaunty  rode  away.  He  didn't  tell  Anne  so,  but  he 
was  off  to  the  station,  then  to  London  to  see  Mr.  Monk 
and  get  to  the  bottom  of  this  bad  business. 

He  got  to  London  late  in  the  afternoon  and  drove 
straight  to  the  house  of  Mr.  Monk.  He  could  not  have 
bettered  its  position.  With  no  small  pride  he  gave  the 
address.  The  cabman  could  have  no  idea  how  good  an 
address  it  was,  taking  into  consideration  everything — an 
impossible  father  and  an  indifferently  dressed  daughter. 

"It  might  well  have  been  this,"  murmured  Jaunty  as  the 
cab  drove  through  respectable  but  deadly  dull  streets  and 
thoroughfares.  "Without  her  ways — her  manners — it  must 
have  been  one  of  these — and  what  of  my  share  in  the 
business !" ' 

When  the  cab  stopped  he  admitted  to  himself,  "I,  alone, 
could  not  have  achieved  this,"  and  he  trod  lightly  the  wide 
marble  doorsteps  and  rang  the  visitors'  bell.  The  man 
who  opened  the  door  was  exactly  what  Jaunty  knew  he 
ought  to  have  been  if  he  had  been  a  real  butler.  Jaunty 
respected  him.  The  butler,  on  his  part,  showed  his  respect 
for  Jaunty  by  treating  him  as  if  he  were  anything  in  the 
world  rather  than  a  bad  butler. 

Jaunty  asked  if  Mr.  Monk  were  at  home.  He  would 
rather  have  asked  the  question  of  a  footman.  And  the 
butler — who  was  really  a  butler,  and  looked  it — said  Mr. 
Monk  had  that  moment  returned.  "What  name,  sir?" 

Jaunty  hesitated,  said  "Mr.,"  then  added  with  a  gesture 
of  indifference,  "Just  Jaunty." 

The  butler  opened  the  door  at  the  left  of  the  hall  and 
announced  "Mr.  Justice  Jaunty,"  and  Jaunty,  blushing 
at  the  greatness  of  the  position  thrust  upon  him,  found 
himself  face  to  face  with  Mr.  Monk — the  deserted,  the 
abominably  treated  Mr.  Monk. 

He  was  writing  at  a  table,  the  size  of  which  impressed 
Jaunty.  Mr.  Monk  too  impressed  him.  He  looked  so 


118  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

calm,  so  cool,  so  collected.  His  hair  was  as  tidy  as  Jaunty 
had  ever  seen  it.  There  was  no  sign  of  distress  or  dis- 
turbance or  even  hurry  in  its  parting.  A  horrible  thought 
struck  Jaunty.  Had  Mr.  Monk  already  recovered  from 
the  loss  of  Miss  Pamela?  Was  he  growing  accustomed  to 
be  without  her?  Was  he  as  thankful  to  get  rid  of  her  as 
Jaunty  had  been?  Yet  he  hadn't  given  her  a  fair  chance. 
What  was  a  fortnight  against  the  eighteen  years  Jaunty 
had  suffered  in  silence? 

Mr.  Monk  rose,  looking  very  much  concerned,  whether 
over  his  pen  or  Miss  Pamela  Jaunty  couldn't  determine. 
Mr.  Monk  tried  the  nib  on  his  thumbnail.  It  gave  way. 

"Temper,"  thought  Jaunty.  "Nothing  spoils  pens  like 
it."  With  that  very  pen  Mr.  Monk  had  no  doubt  written 
to  Miss  Pamela.  No  pen  could  bear  the  weight  of  such 
anger. 

"Anything  wrong,  Jaunty?"  he  asked. 

"I  should  advise  a  new  one,  sir." 

"The  pen,  yes,"  letting  it  drop.  "Nothing  wrong  in  any 
other  ..." 

"Nothing  wrong  that  I  know  of,  sir — everything  just 
as  usual  at  home — too  much  so,  if  I  may  say  so.  It  was 
that  very  question  I  was  going  to  ask  you." 

The  look  on  Mr.  Monk's  face  deepened  to  one  of  be- 
wilderment, and  Jaunty  felt  his  innocence  established. 

"Sit  down,  Jaunty." 

"No,  sir." 

He  preferred  to  stand.  He  could  see  better.  His  heart 
went  out  with  a  rush  to  Mr.  Monk,  a  rush  of  gratitude, 
of  understanding,  of  sympathy.  Mr.  Monk  had  given  all 
this  to  Miss  Pamela,  and  Jaunty  went  back  in  his  mind 
to  the  days  when  he  had  grieved  over  her  old  frocks,  her 
three-year-old  hats.  Here  in  striking  contrast  were  satin 
brocade  curtains,  lined  with  white — perishable,  beautiful, 
expensive.  He  sank  up  to  his  ankles  in  soft  velvet  pile — 
at  least  he  was  going  to  tell  Mademoiselle  he  had.  As  she 
didn't  understand  him,  he  might  as  well  enjoy  the  deceit 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  119 

to  its  full  depth.  His  eyes  rested  on  pictures  hanging 
on  the  walls,  portraits  of  distinguished  ancestors,  ances- 
tresses, wearing  respectively  knee-breeches  and  wigs, 
patches  and  powder.  All  these  things  had  become  Miss 
Pamela's  by  the  reading  in  Panslea  church  of  a  service — a 
service  indifferently  read,  not  a  word  of  which  he  had 
heard,  except  Miss  Pamela's  "I  will,"  and  now  she  wouldn't 
— so  like  her. 

"Well,  Jaunty,"  said  Mr.  Monk,  lighting  a  cigarette. 

"Mrs.  Monk  wants  more  clothes,  sir,  if  she  is  stay- 
ing .  .  ." 

Then  like  sunshine  after  storm  came  Mr.  Monk's  an- 
nouncement that  he  could  not  spare  her.  There  was  tender- 
ness in  his  voice — absurd  tenderness;  the  corners  of  his 
eyes  wrinkled  into  a  smile,  and  Jaunty  found  him  ridicu- 
lously handsome — or  rather,  handsome  and  ridiculous. 

Then  Mr.  Monk  went  on  to  say  that  it  was  very  unlucky 
he  should  have  been  called  away  on  business.  "But  busi- 
ness is  business,  as  you  know,  Jaunty,"  and  he  waved  the 
lighted  match  in  the  air,  then  laid  it  on  the  tray  appointed 
for  the  purpose.  Jaunty  sighed.  The  pleasant  tyranny 
of  order  that  had  once  been  as  second  nature  to  him  had 
power  still,  he  found.  He  reverenced  that  ash-tray. 
Business?  It  was  such  ages  since  he  had  lived  in  a  house 
where  business  had  any  place  that  he  had  almost  forgotten 
it  could  be  part  of  any  everyday  life.  "But  once  a  clerk," 
he  thought,  "always  a  clerk.  And  never  a  butler;  never 
a  butler." 

Then  to  show  Mr.  Monk  that  although  a  man  of  busi- 
ness at  heart  he  knew  of  other  things  as  important,  he 
murmured  something  about  a  honeymoon,  feeling  that  must 
at  least  be  as  tiresome  as  it  was  unnecessary;  but  it  was  a 
honeymoon,  and  as  such  Panslea  held  it  of  some 
importance. 

"Of  course,"  said  Mr.  Monk,  "it  was  most  unfortunate — 
but,  of  course,  Mrs.  Monk  explained." 


120  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

"Of  course,"  said  Jaunty,  "of  course."  (It  was  ever 
Mrs.  Monk's  way  to  explain.) 

Then  Mr.  Monk  said  he  was  going  that  night  to  fetch 
her  back.  "There  is  a  train?"  he  asked. 

Jaunty  said  there  were  two  to  be  had  for  the  taking. 

Mr.  Monk  said  one  would  do  if  they  could  catch  it. 
Jaunty  said  they  could  do  that  if  they  went  at  once.  With 
the  Paris  episode  still  fresh  in  his  memory  he  was  sure 
Mr.  Monk  wouldn't  do  that.  But  Jaunty  was  wrong.  Mr. 
Monk  was  prepared  to  go  at  once.  He  rang  the  bell: 
gave  hurried  orders  to  the  butler,  gathered  up  his  papers, 
locked  his  writing-table  drawer,  and  said,  "Ready, 
Jaunty?" 

The  butler  murmured  something  about  dinner  and  Mr. 
Monk  said  he  didn't  want  any.  Jaunty  heard  that  with 
surprise  and  said  to  himself,  "There — he  had  the  choice  of 
dinner  or  Miss  Pamela,  and  he  chose  .  .  ." 

There  is  no  doubt  which  Jaunty  at  the  moment  would 
have  chosen. 

As  they  drove  to  the  station  Mr.  Monk  sat  with  his 
watch  in  his  hand.  He  spoke  very  little,  and  when  he 
spoke  it  was  to  ask  how  Miss  Sally  was.  Jaunty  said  she 
was  as  she  always  was  ,  .  . 

"Surprised  to  see  Mrs.  Monk?" 

Jaunty  said,  Not  very.    Nothing  surprised  Miss  Sally. 

"But  surely  .  .  .,"  began  Mr.  Monk,  then  he  stopped, 
and  he  said  no  more  until  they  drove  into  the  station ;  then, 
shutting  his  watch,  he  said,  "Nothing  surprises  her?" 

"Well,  very  little,"  said  Jaunty. 

"She  was  glad  to  see  her  sister,  no  doubt." 

"No  doubt,"  agreed  Jaunty. 

"And  not  surprised?" 

"Perhaps,"  said  Jaunty. 

"You  have  your  ticket?" 

Jaunty  said  he  had  it.  He  took  it  from  his  purse  and 
Mr.  Monk  glanced  at  it.  He  paid  the  difference  on  the 
third-class  ticket,  and  Jaunty  travelled  first-class  with 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  121 

the  unquestioned  control  of  the  window.  Mr.  Monk  slept. 
Travelling  "first"  was  not  the  adventure  to  him  that  it  was 
to  Jaunty.  Jaunty,  on  the  other  hand,  was  not  going  to 
fetch  a  wife,  so  if  either  had  the  right  it  was  he  who 
should  have  slept.  He  wondered  if  any  one  in  Panslea 
would  see  him  alight  from  the  train.  It  would  be  snobbish, 
he  decided,  to  get  out  more  slowly  than  was  his  habit;  but 
he  saw  no  reason  to  hurry.  He  didn't. 

When  he  and  Mr.  Monk  reached  home  he  laid  his  hat 
on  the  doorstep  and,  throwing  open  the  library  door, 
announced,  "Mr.  Monk." 

The  room  was  not  lit  up,  but  it  was  not  so  dark  on  this 
summer's  evening  that  Jaunty  couldn't  distinguish  the 
figures  of  his  two  young  ladies  in  white.  He  judged  them 
to  be  sitting  at  their  father's  feet,  as  they  so  often  sat. 
He  saw  a  slim  figure  detach  herself  from  the  group  and 
come  across  the  room  towards  Mr.  Monk.  By  the  way  she 
walked  he  knew  her  to  be  Miss  Pamela.  She  was  more 
of  a  woman  in  her  movements  than  Miss  Sally — more 
graceful,  having  nothing  starched  in  her  outline.  Miss 
Sally's  frock  stuck  out  all  round  if  it  were  fresh  from 
the  washtub.  Mrs.  Monk's  clung  to  her  beautiful  limbs  in 
a  way  Jaunty  disapproved  but  was  forced  to  admire. 

"Well,  Mr.  Monkey  Man !"  said  Pamela,  and  that  was 
all.  But  it  was  said  with  so  exquisite  a  grace  and  so 
charming  a  manner  that  Jaunty  felt  a  lump  in  his  throat, 
and  he  left  Mr.  Lawrence  and  Sally  to  deal  with  the  situa- 
tion. And  there  was  no  situation  to  deal  with,  Pamela 
had  made  it  an  episode.  Sally  and  her  father  went  for  a 
walk  round  the  garden. 

"It  seems  all  right,  Sally,"  said  he. 

"Quite,"  said  she,  and  there  the  matter  ended  so  far  as 
Sally  and  her  father  were  concerned. 

Pamela  had  to  explain  her  little  joke  to  her  husband, 
and  it  turned  out  that  her  sense  of  humour  was  not  his. 
Pamela  said  it  might  not  be  the  worse  for  that,  and  he  said 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

gravely,  "Yes;  but  it  is  as  well  we  should  understand  one 
another  from  the  beginning." 

That  Pamela  said  they  would  never  do.  If  they  under- 
stood one  another  in  the  end  it  would  be  wonderful.  Then 
there  was  the  middle  too  to  be  got  through,  which  would 
be  the  most  dangerous  state  of  all.  "When  I'm  tired  of 
you,  Mr.  Monkey  Man." 

"Are  you  not  that  already?"  he  asked. 

"I  wonder/'  said  Pamela;  and  Arnold  wondered.  He 
didn't  know  what  to  think.  Nor  did  Mr.  Lawrence  and 
Jaunty  when  they  came  to  think  things  calmly  over  the 
next  morning.  Sally  thought  nothing  about  it,  except  that 
she  was  very  sleepy  because  Pamela  had  told  her  all  about 
Paris — it  had  taken  most  of  the  night,  so  she  vowed. 

Janet  Mason  went  to  Anne  Beech.  "I  owe  an  apology 
to  some  one,"  she  said,  "and  I  don't  know  to  whom.  I 
cannot  imagine  why  I  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  Pamela 
didn't  like  her  husband." 

"I  shouldn't  apologise  to  any  one — you  certainly  can't 
to  the  Monk  nor  to  the  Monkey,  and  no  one  else  matters." 

"But  it  would  be  a  relief." 

"You  must  deny  yourself  that  comfort,  Janet,  my  dear, 
and  the  next  time  you  see  something  your  eyes  can't  be- 
lieve, don't  you  believe  it  either.  It's  safer  in  this  world — 
and  much  kinder.  Eyes  are  dangerous  things;  they  see 
everything  but  themselves." 

"If  I  had  really  felt  the  influence — Her  influence  .  .  ." 

"You  would  have  judged  her  child  kindly.  We  must  all 
remember  to  do  that,  Janet." 

"She  has  gone,  non?"  asked  Mademoiselle  of  Jaunty, 
who  waited  for  her  tray. 

"Mais,  oui,"  said  Jaunty;  "gone,  allez,  bon  jour." 

"She  looked  happy — the  beautiful  child?"  asked  Made- 
moiselle, spreading  a  piece  of  toast  thinly  with  butter, 
Jaunty's  eyes  upon  her. 

"She   laughed   beaucoup,"   said   Jaunty,   looking   away, 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  123 

grieved  that  Mademoiselle  should  have  suspected  him  of 
measuring  the  depth  of  the  butter  she  spread — it  wasn't 
as  if  she  were  Matilda. 

"The  house  a  Londres,  it  is  a  nice  house?"  asked  Made- 
moiselle, eating  her  toast. 

Here  was  Jaunty's  chance  given  him  generously  by 
Mademoiselle.  "Oui,  very  nice,  very  grand,  very  beau- 
tiful, very  large — hall  tout  marble — walls  tout  silk — cur- 
tains tout  brocade — lined  with  thick  white  silk.  Carpets 
all  sink  in,  so  deep!"  Jaunty  stooped  and  pointed  to  his 
ankle-bone.  "Oui  vraiment,  solemn  truth,  non  pas  tout  a 
fait — very  nearly.  Pictures  on  walls — lovely  ladies — 
grand  gentlemen — ancestors,  comprendre?" 

Mademoiselle  nodded.  This  telegraphic  mode  of  com- 
munication Jaunty  thought  best  suited  to  her  Fretnch 
intelligence.  He  went  on:  "Mr.  Monk,  he  eat  no  dinner. 
When  butler  said  'Dinner/  Mr.  Monk  said  'No  dinner, 
fetch  Mrs.  Monk,  train,  come  Jaunty,' — comme  ga  com- 
prendre?" And  Jaunty  removed  Mademoiselle's  tray,  then 
said  again  "Comprendre?"  and  Mademoiselle  nodded. 

She  thought,  How  tenderly  the  dear  old  man  lied.  She 
knew  exactly  the  depths  of  those  carpets  to  the  fraction 
of  an  inch.  Jaunty  went  on  to  say  that  it  was  quite  clear 
that  Mr.  Monk  liked  his  wife  better  than  his  dinner,  which 
did  not  surprise  Mademoiselle  as  much  as  it  seemed  to 
surprise  Jaunty. 

She  also  understood  that  Mr.  Monk  was  very  rich.  But 
what  of  that?  Since  she  had  come  to  live  at  Panslea  with 
the  Lawrences  she  had  found  money  of  little  consequence. 
There  was  very  little  money,  that  was  quite  evident,  but 
it  made  no  difference.  It  was  all  happiness  and  laughter. 
It  was  only  Jaunty  who  worried.  And  it  was  Jaunty  who 
saved  and  paid  and  prayed,  that  she  verily  believed,  and 
kept  things  going. 

"Ah!"  Mademoiselle  closed  her  eyes.  He  was  a  dear, 
good  old  man  was  this  Jaunty.  But  butler?  No.  That 
was  he  not.  What  then  was  he? 


124  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

That  was  what  Panslea  wanted  to  know.  It  knew  he 
had  been  clerk  to  old  Mr.  Lawrence — but  before  he  was 
clerk?  Had  he  been  child,  son,  brother,  everything  that 
most  men  had  been?  There  were  a  few  in  Panslea  who 
doubted  it.  Child  he  must  at  some  time  have  been,  for  the 
best  in  a  child's  nature  was  still  his. 

The  people  of  Panslea,  true  to  their  ideal,  never  spoke 
of  Pamela's  return,  except  Lord  Bridlington  to  Mr.  Mas- 
ters; Mr.  Masters  to  Mrs.  Masters;  Mrs.  Masters  to  Janet 
Mason;  Janet  Mason  to  Miss  Doe.  Miss  Doe  timidly — 
and  only  after  prayer — to  Mrs.  Hill,  and  there  the  chain 
was  broken. 

Mrs.  Hill  said  nothing  to  any  one,  and  Panslea  settled 
down  into  its  ordinary  uneventful  life,  watching  peacefully 
the  growth  of  Sally. 

Michael  Mason  lived  from  day  to  day  for  Janet's  letters. 
So  tactful  was  Janet  in  writing  that  she  avoided  all  mention 
of  Pamela,  except  once  to  say  that  her  heart  (Janet's)  bled 
for  him;  and  then  not  quite  knowing  what  to  write  about 
she  wrote  about  Anne  Beech.  So  Michael  got  what  he 
wanted  and  never  told  Janet  what  a  goose  she  was,  or 
attempted  to  stop  the  bleeding  of  her  heart.  For  the  more 
tactful  she  became  the  more  she  wrote  about  Anne,  which 
was  welL 

Michael  heard  about  Pamela  in  London.  From  time 
to  time  he  saw  her  and,  like  the  rest  of  her  world,  admired 
her;  but  knowing  Panslea,  and  the  father,  and  the  sister, 
and  the  ridiculous  butler,  who  waited  and  longed  for  news 
of  her,  he  drew  her  gently  to  talk  of  Panslea  and  of  them. 
But  Pamela  laughed  and  told  amusing  stories  of  her  father, 
which  she  made  even  more  amusing  than  they  were.  It 
was  not  the  side  of  Mr.  Lawrence's  character  Michael 
most  admired  that  Pamela  loved  to  dwell  on.  Some  one 
said  to  Michael,  "What  a  quaint  person  Mrs.  Monk's 
father  must  be!"  and  Michael  answered  that  it  was  a  pity 
there  weren't  more  like  him  in  the  world. 

Pamela  made  no  effort  to  see  her  father  and  Sally,  and 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  125 

Sally  began  to  feel  lonely  and  forsaken.  Anne  said  she 
must  remember  what  an  emancipation  it  had  been  to 
Pamela,  and  Sally  nodding  said  she  understood.  It  was 
for  her  father  she  felt.  He  would  love  to  see  Pamela. 

"Couldn't  he  go  up?" 

"Pamela  doesn't  suggest  it,  and  when  he  suggested  it 
she  said  every  day  was  full  up,  and  she  added  that  she 
wished  he  wore  a  kilt,  because  they  never  get  out  of 
fashion.  She  has  learnt  to  know  when  a  man  is  well 
dressed  and  when  he  isn't." 

"Don't  you  know,  Sally?"  asked  Anne. 

"It  isn't  at  a  man's  clothes  I  look,"  said  Sally.  "I 
should  be  proud  of  Daddy  Long  Legs  wherever  I  went." 

Anne  knew  Sally  was  right.  And  yet  she  understood 
too  Pamela's  feelings,  and  knew  that  one  has  to  be  either 
much  older  than  Pamela,  or  nearly  as  large-hearted  as 
Sally,  to  be  indifferent  to  the  personal  appearance  of  those 
we  love. 


XII 


ON  her  eighteenth  birthday  Sally  knelt  at  her  open  window 
and  she  prayed,  "O  God,  give  me  romance,  and  don't  let 
me  marry  the  curate  with  ebony  hairbrushes  and  without 
opposition,"  and  having  prayed  she  still  knelt  awaiting  her 
birthday  gift.  It  came  straight  from  the  gates  of  Heaven 
— a  June  morning.  She  saw  it  peeping  through  the  cur- 
tain of  haze  and  mist,  and  stretching  out  her  arms  she 
called  to  it.  The  flute  of  a  bird  answered  her — then 
another — and  the  curtain  went  up  on  the  newly-awakened 
dawn  wrapped  in  pink  clouds.  As  she  rose  a  full  chorus 
of  birds  greeted  her,  and  she  blushed  at  the  tribute  which 
had  really  been  paid  to  Sally.  But  Sally  didn't  mind; 
she  went  back  to  bed  to  give  the  dawn  time  to  grow 
accustomed  to  the  light  flattery  of  the  day — besides,  she 
was  sleepy. 

A  few  hours  later  her  father  had  begged  her  to  forgive 
him  for  having  forgotten  her  birthday,  and  Jaunty  had 
given  her  a  pincushion  without  asking  her  forgiveness. 

"Is  it  what  you  wanted,  miss?"  he  asked;  and  she  said 
it  was,  but  she  hadn't  prayed  for  it. 

"What  did  you  pray  for?"  he  ventured. 

"Ah!"  said  Sally. 

"What  could  it  have  been?"  wondered  Jaunty  as  he 
watched  her  drive  away  in  her  cart.  "What  could  it  have 
been?" 

Sally  went  down  the  lane  in  her  cart,  and  if  there  wasn't 
romance  in  that  she,  at  least,  drove  a  pony  she  loved, 
through  country  she  loved,  at  a  pace  Josephsofat  loved, 
and  she  thought  she  was  as  near  Heaven  as  she  was  ever 
likely  to  be  on  earth.  While  she  was  measuring  the  exact 
distance  between  Heaven  and  earth,  Josephsofat  stopped 

126 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  127 

suddenly,  which  he  was  bound  to  do  unless  he  had  delib- 
erately chosen  to  walk  over  a  young  man  who  stood  in  the 
middle  of  his  path. 

The  young  man  laughed  at  Sally  and  her  cart.  Sally 
sitting  in  a  chair  that  lacked  stuffing  looked  at  the  young 
man^  and  the  young  man  who  had  never  taken  his  eyes 
off  Sally  since  she  had  gladdened  them,  laughed  again, 
and  they  both  laughed.  Not  really  because  Sally  looked 
odd  sitting  in  the  chair,  or  because  Josephsofat  was  fat,  but 
just  because  the  man  and  Sally  were  both  young.  That 
was  all,  and  it  was  a  good  enough  joke  if  one  thought  of  it 
seriously,  which  wasn't  possible.  If  Sally  had  been  sixty 
and  the  man  seventy,  they  wouldn't  have  done  more  than 
politely  bow — and  he  perhaps  would  have  said,  "I  beg  your 
pardon  for  standing  in  your  way."  But  of  course  he 
wouldn't  have  stood  in  the  way.  He  would  have  passed  in 
a  car  and  she  perhaps  in  a  one-horse  victoria.  O  dull, 
desperately  dull  old  age!  What  it  leaves  behind  it! 
Springs — summers — days  in  June — laughter — and  tears, 
even  tears! 

"Did  you  say  your  prayers  this  morning?"  asked  the 
young  man,  scrambling  up  the  bank  out  of  the  way,  and 
sitting  there,  digging  his  heels  in  the  soft  grasses  that 
grew  in  the  bank,  so  that  he  should  not  slip. 

And  Sally,  not  in  the  least  surprised  at  the  question 
since  everything  that  had  praised  that  morning  must  also 
have  prayed,  said,  "Yes,  of  course." 

"And  may  I  ask  what  you  prayed  for  ?" 

Now  here  was  a  difficulty.  In  the  first  place,  she 
couldn't  tell  this  stranger  what  she  had  refused  to  tell 
Jaunty;  in  the  second  place,  it  wouldn't  be  quite  fair  to 
the  curate  who  might  at  any  moment  chance  to  pass  that 
way,  so  often  was  he  bent  on  some  errand  of  mercy.  Be- 
sides this  young  man  might  be  travelling  in  ebony  hair- 
brushes, though  Sally  was  bound  to  admit  he  didn't  look 
like  it.  Sally  had  said  she  never  looked  at  a  man's  clothes ; 
but  this  young  man  she  knew  was  well  dressed  without  the 


128  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

bother  of  looking.  Being  in  a  difficulty  she  said,  "I  prayed 
for  you." 

"For  me?  By  what  name — under  what  heading — under 
what  Heaven?" 

"You  come  under  no  heading.  The  Heaven  is  above 
you.  You  have  no  name,  so  far  as  I  know.  I  prayed 
for  every  one  who  loves  a  summer's  day,  and  I  prayed 
that  this  day  might  last  as  long  as  possible  and  then  fly, 
away,  when  it  must,  on  the  wings  of  a  glorious  sunset. 
And  I  prayed  that  no  one  might  be  wicked  this  day  but 
happy  and  good." 

"And  must  goodness  and  happiness  go  hand  in  hand 
alj  the  days  of  their — your  life?"  Sober  companions,  he 
thought  them. 

"Shouldn't  they?" 

"I  wonder  what  is  goodness  ?" 

Sally  thought  she  saw  it  shining  in  the  young  man's  eyes, 
but  she  daren't  say  so. 

"D'you  know  Simon  Saxton?"  she  asked. 

The  young  man  said  he  didn't — that  he  was  sorry  he 
didn't. 

"Why,  if  you  don't  know  him?" 

"Because  at  his  name  your  voice  softened,  and  there 
are  tears  in  your  eyes;  are  those  reasons  enough?  I  have 
others." 

"Do  you  like  cushions?"  asked  Sally. 

"In  chairs?" 

"Yes,  in  chairs." 

"I  loathe  them." 

"Oh!" 

"Does  that  spoil  the  story?  I  love  them." 

"I  meant  well-stuffed  chairs." 

"Oh,  of  course,  I  love  them.  I  am  of  a  most  indolent 
disposition." 

He  slid  a  few  inches  down  the  bank  to  better  his  posi- 
tion, a  thing  he  had  not  thought  it  possible  to  do. 

Then  Sally  told  him  of  old  Simon  Saxton,  and  how  she 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  129 

had  been  appointed  Inspector  of  armchairs,  and  leaning 
over  the  side  of  the  cart  she  pointed  with  the  end  of  her 
lashless  whip  to  her  name  written  on  the  shaft. 

"Now,  I  must  guess  what  'S'  stands  for?" 

"Simon  never  grumbles,"  said  Sally. 

"You  visit  him?  And  you  call  it  good  of  him  not  to 
grumble  ?" 

"He's  what  I  call  a  saint." 

"We  are  told  the  life  of  a  saint  is  a  hard  one." 

"Not  now,"  said  Sally  triumphantly,  "he's  got  the  softest 
cushioned  chair  in  Panslea." 

"And  you  the  softest  heart?" 

"And  your  head?"  asked  Sally;  and  they  laughed  at  the 
stupid  little  joke  just  because  they  were  young,  for  no 
other  reason  in  this  round,  ridiculous  world. 

"How  did  you  come  down  the  lane?"  asked  Sally, 
sobering. 

"Heaven  be  praised  and  the  evening  paper  that  led  me. 
I  came  on  an  adventure.  My  love  of  adventure  and  love 
of  romance  led —  No,  to  be  quite  truthful  I  must  go  back 
to  the  evening  paper;  I  followed  the  route  mapped  out  by 
that  most  blessed  of  journalistic  endeavours,  and  I  came 
down  the  road  described  as  'indifferent.'  May  Heaven  help 
it  and  its  circulation.  Indifferent!" 

"Romance?  You  said  romance,  didn't  you?"  asked 
Sally,  awed  by  the  strangeness  of  the  coincidence.  (As  if 
two  young  things  didn't  always  go  out  in  search  of 
romance.) 

"Romance;  it  is  a  thing  I  pray  for.  Give  me 
romance  ..." 

"And  don't  let  me  .  .  ."  went  on  Sally. 

"No;  I  don't  go  so  far  as  that.    Don't  let  me — what?" 

"Give  me  romance.  Did  you  pray  that — those  very 
words — this  morning?"  asked  Sally,  her  eyes  widening. 

"Yes,"  lied  the  young  man,  "in  a  sense.  I  have  prayed 
for  it  all  my  life,  and  I  am  in  a  stockbroker's  office.  Do 
you  believe  in  prayer?" 


130  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

"I  do,"  said  Sally  solemnly ;  "I  am  bound  to." 

"Well,  I  must  too.     But  it  has  been  long  in  coming." 

Sally  couldn't  agree;  so  she  said  the  puppy  had  eaten 
the  stuffing  out  of  the  chair-cushion;  and  through  the  hole 
the  puppy's  teeth  had  made  she  drew  what  was  left  of 
the  horsehair  slowly  and  deliberately,  and  asked  the  young 
man  if  he  thought  the  damage  done  would  come  under 
the  head  of  ordinary  wear  and  tear.  The  young  man  said 
he  had  no  doubt  about  it.  What  was  more  ordinary  in 
the  world  than  a  puppy,  and  every  puppy  wore  and  tore. 
For  what  other  purposes  were  they  made? 

Sally  felt  she  was  having  a  very  wonderful  birthday. 
She  wasn't  in  the  least  disturbed  at  talking  to  a  strange 
young  man,  because  she  spoke  to  every  one  in  Panslea,  man, 
woman,  or  child.  That  he  was  a  man  and  young  was  a 
happy  chance.  He  on  his  part  was  not  so  bad  as  he 
seemed.  He  knew  well  enough  who  Sally  was,  and  it  was 
mere  diplomacy  on  his  part  to  demur  when  she  asked  him 
to  luncheon. 

"My  father  would  be  so  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said. 

"But  do  you  think  I  may?    You  know  nothing  about  me." 

"Is  there  anything  to  know?" 

"Nothing  beyond  a  name,  I'm  afraid.  We  are  bound 
to  have  mutual  friends.'* 

"Bound  to,"  agreed  Sally.  "Begin  'A' ;  do  you  know  the 
Arnolds?" 

"Matthew  Arnold — Light  of  Asia — or  the  World, 
was  it?" 

"No,  I  mean  the  dark  Arnolds  of  England." 

"Well,  no." 

"The  Bridlingtons?" 

"Red-brick  Bridlington  ?"  exclaimed  the  young  man. 
"Of  course,  I  am  on  my  way  there  now.  Is  that  introduc- 
tion enough?" 

"Lunch  is  at  one,"  said  Sally. 

"One  moment — about  this  chair  business.  We  are  some- 
thing in  the  same  line  of  business." 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  131 

Sally  asked,  "What  business?"  Did  he  inspect  arm- 
chairs for  the  people  of  somewhere  else? 

Well,  not  quite.    He  travelled  in  furniture. 

"What  do  you  travel  in?"  asked  Sally,  immensely 
interested. 

"Furniture." 

"How?  Are  you  wheeled  about  in  a  Chesterfield — or 
trundled  in  a  wardrobe?" 

"Oh,  that  sort  of  travel.  I  travel  in  furniture  and  I 
drive  in  a  caravan." 

Here  was  romance  with  a  vengeance.  "A  real  caravan  ?" 
asked  Sally. 

"Quite  real.  Red  wheels — green  body.  No,  it's  not  a 
butterfly,  I  swear.  Green  body,  curtains — there,  does  that 
convince  you?  No  butterfly  has  curtains.  It's  really  a 
caravan,  windows  and  all." 

"And  what  draws  the  caravan?" 

"The  dear  old  twins — Pomp  and  Circumstance." 

"Are  they  horses?" 

"They  would  call  themselves  so,  no  doubt,  if  they 
were  asked." 

"And  could  answer." 

"Precisely.  Well,  you  admit  the  fraternity?  Travellers 
in  furniture?" 

"I  admit  your  right  to  be  numbered  among  the  few. 
Go  on  telling  me." 

"It's  quite  simple.  You  go  about  making  people  com- 
fortable in  armchairs.  I  go  about  making  them  comfort- 
able in  cottages — see?" 

Sally  did  not  see. 

"If  you  took  off  your  sunbonnet  you  would,"  said  the 
young  man,  adding  softly,  greatly  daring,  "Neither  Pompey 
nor  Circe  (for  short)  ever  wear  blinkers,  on  principle. 
Mine — not  theirs.  They  have  none." 

The  young  man  wanted  to  see  Sally's  hair.  He  sus- 
pected the  sun  was  jealous  of  it.  But  he  had  no  right  to 
ask  her  to  do  such  a  thing,  even  to  put  the  sun  out,  and 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

Sally  had  no  intention  of  doing  it.  So  she  looked  at  him 
with  grave  displeasure — and  they  Iboth  laughed.  The 
same  old  reason!  When  he  had  laughed  he  begged  her 
pardon  humbly  and  she  forgave  him  graciously,  taking  off 
her  sunbonnet  as  a  token  of  forgiveness. 

"Now  go  on/'  she  said. 

"Well,  I  go  into  a  cottage,  I  see  at  a  glance  what  sort 
of  an  old  woman  she  is  with  whom  I  have  to  deal.  If 
she  loves  her  tables  and  chairs,  and  if  I  can  see  in  them 
her  face,  and  deeper  down  her  heart,  I  make  some  excuse 
for  having  disturbed  her.  I  pay  her  a  pretty  and  a  per- 
fectly sincere  compliment.  If  she  is  charming  I  pay 
her  another  compliment — prettier,  if  a  little  less  sincere. 
I  ask  her,  if  by  chance  a  very  handsome  young  man  I 
passed  in  the  street  in  London,  one  Tuesday,  could  have 
been  her  son,  the  likeness  was  so  remarkable?  And  if 
she  is  a  very  nice  old  lady  she  says,  'Why,  of  course  it 
was!'  She  had  had  a  letter  from  him  only  the  other 
Wednesday  telling  her  to  look  out  for  a  softy  who  was 
coming  her  way.  Then  perhaps  she  grows  serious  and 
says  I  am  like  her  dear  boy — who  died  in  a  far-away 
country — then  I  pay  her  no  compliments,  but  I  say  good- 
bye, and  I  go  with  her  blessing  tucked  away  in  my  heart. 
If,  on  the  other  hand,  the  old  woman  who  .owns  the  cottage 
cares  neither  for  her  chairs  nor  her  tables — if  they  are 
badly  kept — I  offer  her  in  exchange  for  them  a  Brussels 
square — fawn  ground  covered  with  red  roses — a  picture, 
framed,  of  Queen  Victoria,  and  another  of  Moses  in  the 
bulrushes — also  framed — and  a  rocking-chair. 

"Having  entirely  refurnished  her  cottage  and  made  it 
thoroughly  comfortable  and  quite  hideous,  from  my  point 
of  view,  and  no  doubt  from  yours,  I  go  off  with  my  table 
and  chair,  feeling  exchange  to  be  no  robbery.  The  other 
day  I  came  across  a  really  genuine  Chippendale  chair  and 
a  lacquer  clock — things  you  seldom  find  in  cottages,  or 
anywhere.  The  woman  who  owned  them  had  no  affection 
for  anything.  She  said  every  time  the  clock  struck  it 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  133 

reminded  her  of  her  father,  who  drank.  She  said  she 
didn't  stop  the  clock  striking  because  a  Higher  Hand  than 
hers  had  taken  no  steps  to  stop  her  father,  so  she  supposed 
she  needed  the  reminder,  painful  though  it  was.  She  had 
no  soul,  no  soul !" 

"Saying  it  twice,"  said  Sally,  "won't  make  it  true.  How 
do  you  know  she  had  no  soul  ?" 

"By  the  very  joy  in  her  face  when  I  left  her." 

"She  was  glad  to  get  rid  of  you." 

"In  a  sense.     I  left  her  with  the  promise  of  so  much." 

"Of  what — money?  That  didn't  show  she  had  no  soul. 
It  showed  perhaps  that  her  children  wanted  soles  to  their 
boots,  and  clothes  and  food  for  their  poor  little  bodies." 

"She  had  no  children,"  said  the  young  man. 

"Poor  old  thing!"  said  Sally. 

"She  didn't  complain.  She  was  Miss  Buttersweet — 
nice  name,  isn't  it?  And  she  has  no  relations  'to  speak  of 
(her  words — not  mine),  and  I  left  her  without  giving  her 
money,  but  in  exchange  for  those  two  uncared-for  pieces  of 
furniture  I  promised  her  a  Brussels  carpet  .  .  ." 

"Pink  roses  on  a  buff  ground — cabbage  roses?"  asked 
Sally. 

"Quite  right!"  said  the  young  man.  "A  walnut 
(veneered,  I  own)  chiffonier,  a  mahogany  table,  round,  a 
portrait  of  Queen  Victoria  .  .  ." 

"Framed?"  said  Sally,  "and  a  picture  of  Moses  in  the 
bulrushes,  framed?" 

"Yes,  yes;  and  a  sofa  and  an  armchair." 

"Is  that  all?"  asked  Sally. 

"No;  a  clock  in  the  shape  of  a  frying-pan  or  a  banjo, 
I  forget  which." 

"How  did  the  caravan  hold  it  all?" 

"It  didn't.  Miss  Buttersweet  and  I  went  shopping. 
I  gave  her  carte  blanche  to  buy.  She  was  very  diffident, 
very  ladylike,  very  proper,  but  her  womanliness  overcame 
in  time  her  sense  of  propriety,  and  we  might  have  been 
an  engaged  couple  buying  our  furniture  for  our  little 


134  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

home — Brixton  way.  She  bought  what  she  loved  in  ex- 
change for  what  she  didn't  care  for.  Is  there  injustice 
in  that?" 

"So  long  as  you  don't  give  a  small  sum  for  what  you 
know  to  be  valuable.  I  hate  that." 

It  appeared  that  the  young  man  hated  it  too.  "I  am 
quite  fair,  and  I  have  collected  quite  a  nice  lot  of  furniture 
— for  my  home — not  Brixton  way." 

Sally  liked  this  young  man  with  his  sunburnt  face  and 
his  laughing  eyes.  He  was  more  like  her  father  than  any 
man  she  had  ever  met,  and  so  different  from  Arnold. 
Poor  darling  Pamela! 

"You  have  ruined  the  homes  of  rural  England/'  sug- 
gested Sally. 

"By  making  them  comfortable  ?" 

"By  making  them  hideous." 

"Ask  Miss  Buttersweet;  think  of  the  difference  in  her 
life.  The  frying-pan  clock  never  reminds  her  of  her 
father  when  it  strikes,  because  it  doesn't  strike.  Do  you 
know,  I  might  have  been  a  piano-tuner — aren't  you  very 
rash  ?" 

Sally  said  she  wished  he  had  been,  their  piano  wanted 
tuning.  The  young  man  shook  his  head.  He  wished  he 
had  the  right  to  forbid  her  ever  again  to  speak  to  strange 
young  men.  But  he  had  offended  once.  "You  knew  I 
wasn't,"  he  ventured;  there  was  at  least  comfort  in  that. 

Sally  nodded. 

"What  did  you  think  I  was?" 

Sally  thought  awhile,  and  then  said  that  he  was  rather 
like  a  butler.  Not  a  real  butler,  of  course;  but  just  a 
little  like  one  who  isn't  really  a  butler. 

"Wait  a  moment;  I've  heard  that  before.  Is  it  out  of 
some  play?" 

Sally  didn't  think  so.  She  knew  no  plays.  "Come," 
she  said. 

"Would  you  talk  like  this — to  any  one?"  He  was 
strangely  upset  by  the  thought. 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  135 

"Not  unless  he  looked  like  .  .  ." 

"A  butler?" 

"Not  a  real  one." 

And  they  went:  Sally  driving  in  her  cart,  the  young 
man  walking  beside  her.  They  passed  among  other  cot- 
tages, Anne's.  Anne  was  at  luncheon.  She  jumped  up  to 
see  what  was  passing  and  she  saw  Sally.  Then  the  young 
man.  It  was  enough.  Jimmy  had  a  rival.  Anne  knew  it 
at  once.  But  she  didn't  know  it  was  in  answer  to  Sally's 
prayer;  that  Sally  had  prayed  for  romance  and  was  taking 
it  home  to  lunch  with  her. 

Mr.  Lawrence  made  much  of  romance;  welcomed  it 
with  open  arms,  and  asked  of  it  an  immense  number  of 
questions.  So  many  that  the  young  man  was  bewildered. 
He  sat  between  two  fires  at  luncheon:  Mr.  Lawrence  on 
one  side,  on  the  other  Sally. 

"How  can  you  get  away?"  asked  Sally  from  her  side, 
"if  you  are  on  the  Stock  Exchange.  Oughtn't  you  to  be 
making  money?" 

"You  do  that  best  by  staying  away.  It's  different  just 
now  from  other  businesses." 

"Bentleigh  is  your  name?"  said  Mr.  Lawrence,  from 
the  other  side.  "I  wonder  if  a  Bentleigh  I  used  to  know 
could  have  been  your  father?" 

"What  would  you  do  if  you  had  a  pony  that  wouldn't 
go?"  asked  Sally. 

"I  never  had  one,"  said  Mr.  Bentleigh. 

"You  mean  that  you  don't  remember  him?"  said  Mr. 
Lawrence.  "He  died  young,  I  suppose,  and  yet  the  Bent- 
leigh I  knew  was  ,  ,  ." 

"I  was  answering  your  daughter's  question,  sir;  my 
father  died  when  I  was  very  young." 

"Who  looks  after  the  horse  twins?"  asked  Sally. 

"Brodrib,  when  we're  on  the  road." 

"Brodrib?"  said  Mr.  Lawrence,  "I  remember  that  name. 
I  was  at  Oxford  with  him.  He  became  a  botanist  of 
some  note  .  .  ." 


136  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

"This  is  an  old  factotum  at  home — knows  a  lot  about 
botany,  I'll  be  bound.  He  is  a  sort  of  groom,  gardener, 
coachman,  tinker,  tailor — has  been  a  sailor — would  be  a 
soldier  if  .  .  ."  ,' 

"Very  like  Jaunty,"  said  Sally. 

"Who's  Jaunty?" 

"Probably  one  of  the  same  family,"  said  M£  Lawrence. 
"It's  curious  how  local  names  are.  My  Brodrib  came  from 
Worcestershire." 

"Mine  certainly  from  the  borders  of  Worcestershire  and 
Gloucestershire." 

"Jaunty?"  said  Sally.  "He's  a  sort  of  uncle — butler — 
English  governess — church  dignitary  .  .  ." 

"May  I  see  him?"  asked  the  young  man. 

"I  can't  think  why  you  haven't.  At  this  hour  he  gen- 
erally stands  and  waits." 

"And  also  serves?" 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Sally.  "It's  often  been 
said  about  Jaunty.  Daddy  Long  Legs,  where  is  Jaunty?" 

"Jaunty?"  said  Mr.  Lawrence.  "I  don't  know.  Call 
him !" 

Now  the  difference  between  a  real  butler  and  one  that 
isn't  real  is  that  for  the  real  butler  you  ring.  You  call 
the  butler  who  isn't  real.  It's  a  nice  distinction,  and 
Jaunty  set  great  store  by  it. 

Sally  called  him,  but  no  Jaunty  came,  and  when  Sally, 
came  back  to  the  table  Mr.  Lawrence  had  monopolised 
romance,  and  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  found  her 
father  too  great  a  talker  and  his  theories  absurd! 

Jaunty  was  halfway  down  the  village  and  bound  for 
Anne's  cottage.  Anne  had  seen  him  coming  and  was  at 
the  door  to  meet  him.  "What's  the  matter,  Jaunty?" 

"There's  a  strange  young  man  lunching,  miss."  Jaunty 
made  a  jerky  movement  with  his  hand  in  the  direction  of 
Mr.  Lawrence's  house.  "I  don't  like  it.  Mr.  Lawrence 
will  as  likely  as  not  leave  them  alone.  Will  you  come 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  137 

down,  miss?  I  don't  like  young  men  picked  up  in  the 
road." 

Anne  didn't  either.  She  promised  to  come  down.  "What 
is  he  like?"  she  asked. 

Jaunty  couldn't  say  exactly.  He  hadn't  waited  to  see. 
The  manner  of  his  coming  was  enough.  He  had  always 
said  mischief  would  come  of  Miss  Sally's  over-friendliness 
to  all  men. 

Anne  was  disturbed  on  Jimmy's  account.  Jaunty  on 
general  principles.  He  had  married  one  young  lad^r  well 
from  a  worldly  point  of  view — and  the  one  that  least  mat- 
tered. Miss  Sally  was  to  do  very  differently. 

So  differently  that  Anne  deemed  it  wiser  not  to  mention, 
at  this  moment,  the  dear  Jimmy  who  was  sweltering  in 
India — saving  up  his  money — economising  in  polo  ponies 
and  probably  in  ice.  Running  the  risk  of  unpopularity 
with  his  regiment,  all  for  the  sake  of  Sally  who,  Anne 
was  perfectly  convinced,  never  thought  of  him  except  when 
she  gave  Josephsofat  carrots  on  Sunday — and  only  then 
because  Jimmy  had  suggested  it  as  a  good  moment. 

Anne  begged  Jaunty  to  sit  down,  but  he  preferred  to 
stand;  it  had  become  a  habit. 

"Miss  Sally  must  go  to  London,"  he  said. 

"To  whom?"  asked  Anne. 

"To  her  aunt.  Mrs.  Monk  has  prepared  the  way,  as  it 
were.  Mrs.  Lombard  now  sees  what  dressing  can  do — 
what  can  be  done  with  the  right  stuff,  and  Miss  Sally's 
that.  Mr.  Monk  was  a  catch  and  Mrs.  Lombard  knew  it, 
and  didn't  believe  Miss  Pamela  was  pretty  enough.  Mrs. 
Lombard  would  have  struck  him  off  my  list — but  I  knew 
I  was  right.  Who  should  know  better  than  I  her  fascina- 
tion? Miss  Sally  is  worth  ten  of  Miss  Pamela,  though  I 
say  it  as  shouldn't." 

"And  how  will  you  manage  it,  Jaunty?" 

"I  suggest  you  should  do  that,  miss." 

"Me?"  said  Anne  in  astonishment. 

"Yes,  you,  please,  miss.     Mr.  Lawrence  shall  ask  Mrs. 


138  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

Lombard  down  to  lunch.  We've  done  it  once}  we  can  do 
it  again.  We  pleased  Mr.  Monk,  we  can  please  Mrs. 
Lombard.  The  souffle  needn't  rise  nearly  so  high  to  meet 
with  her  approval.  She  won't  have  forgotten  the  Seccotine 
rhubarb.  Then,  miss,  if  you  will  be  so  kind  as  to  wear 
the  lilac  cotton  you  wore  in  church  two  Sundays  ago,  and 
walk  up  to  tea — the  thing  is  done." 

"How,  Jaunty?" 

"You  will  suggest  Miss  Sally  going  to  London.  You 
will  say  what  she  needs  is  Mrs.  Lombard's  influence,  and 
coming  from  you  it  will  carry  weight.  She  will  ask  Miss 
Sally,  and  Mr.  Lawrence  must  be  made  to  see  the  impor- 
tance of  her  going." 

"You  think  it  so  important?" 

"I  do!  If  Miss  Sally  thinks  any  strange  young  man 
good  enough  to  ask  in  to  lunch  she  must  see  other  men 
and  learn  to  discriminate." 

"And  if  I  don't,  Jaunty — do  as  you  ask?" 

"You  will  disappoint  me,  miss." 

That  was  enough.  After  all,  what  was  the  use  in  keep- 
ing Sally  from  seeing  men  ?  Jaunty  was  right.  The  more 
she  saw  the  better  it  might  be. 

So  she  promised  to  wear  her  mauve  cotton.  In  the  mean- 
time she  might  as  well  see  the  young  man  and  judge  for 
herself  whether  he  was  likely  to  rival  Jimmy/  in  Sally's 
affections. 

"Oughtn't  you  to  be  there?" 

"At  the  house,  miss  ?"  asked  Jaunty. 

"Yes." 

"I  don't  dare.  I  am  ashamed.  It's  pancakes  to-day. 
Pancakes  in  June — such  pancakes!" 


XIII 

ANNE  saw  Mr.  Bentleigh  and  found  him  pleasant  to  look 
upon.  Jaunty  saw  him  and  found  him  something  very 
different.  He  learnt  too,  for  the  first  time,  his  name.  It 
was  a  revelation. 

"This  is  Jaunty,"  said  Sally  gaily,  so  gaily  that  Jaunty 
looked  at  her,  grieved  that  in  the  face  of  such  tragedy 
she  should  laugh.  Then  he  looked  at  the  young  man  and 
back  again  at  Sally.  "May  I  speak  to  you?"  he  said  to 
the  young  man,  and  Douglas  Bentleigh,  charmed  at  what 
he  chose  to  call  the  quaintness  of  the  old  man,  said,  "Of 
course !" 

"In  the  pantry,  please,"  and  Jaunty  went,  followed  by 
the  young  man. 

The  old  man  was  a  little  quainter  than  he  need  have 
been,  but  Bentleigh  was  prepared  to  be  amused. 

"It's  not  exactly  a  pantry,"  said  Jaunty,  opening  the 
door,  "is  it?" 

Douglas  looked  round.  It  wasn't.  On  the  mantelshelf 
stood  two  silver  mugs,  on  a  bracket  a  china  mug,  inscribed 
with  "A  Present  for  a  Good  Girl."  As  to  the  rest  of  the 
room  there  were  shelves,  but  on  the  shelves  there  were 
books,  not  cups — nor  crockery — nor  glass. 

"It's  a  jolly  place,"  said  the  young  man,  inclined  to 
please. 

"D'you  think  so?"  said  Jaunty.  "I  prefer  the  garden 
with  Miss  Sally." 

"Naturally,"  said  the  young  man,  stiffening.  He  was 
too  much  of  an  original,  this  old  man.  This  came  of 
spoiling  old  servants.  Few  could  stand  it. 

The  young  man  walked  to  the  window  and  looked  out. 

139 


140  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

The  window  was  barred  by  a  tangle  of  roses.  "You  can't 
see  out  much,"  he  said  to  Jaunty. 

"I  can  see  farther  than  you  think,"  returned  Jaunty. 
He  followed  the  young  man  to  the  window,  and  touching 
him  gently  on  the  arm,  he  said,  "What  was  your  mother 
about  not  to  bring  you  up  better?  You  mustn't  make  love 
to  my  Miss  Sally.  You  can't  speak  to  her  on  the  road- 
side as  is  apparently  your  habit.  She  is  different  from 
other  young  ladies.  Her  daring  is  born  of  a  profound 
innocence;  neither  her  father  nor' I  have  seen  reason  to  tell 
her  what  men  are." 

The  young  man  swung  round  at  these  words.  "What 
right  have  you  to  speak  like  this?" 

Jaunty  again  laid  his  hand  on  the  yjoung  man's  arm, 
firmly  this  time,  as  though  he  would  calm  him.  "Every 
right — the  right  of  an  uncle  to  speak  to  his  nephew.  I 
am  your  uncle — I'm  sorry  to  have  to  tell  you,  but  you've 
brought  it  on  yourself." 

Douglas  Bentleigh  looked  in  amazement  at  the  old  man. 
Was  he  in  his  right  senses? 

"My  dear,  good  old  man,  this  requires  some  explana- 
tion.— Wait!"  and  out  of  his  pocket  he  took  a  large  and 
exceedingly  thin  gold  cigarette  case,  took  from  it  a 
cigarette  which  he  lit  with  deliberation.  He  threw  away 
the  match.  Jaunty  picked  it  up  and  dropped  it  into  the 
mug  which  had  been  destined  for  a  good  girl. 

"My  uncle?"  said  Douglas  Bentleigh. 

"Your  uncle." 

"Tell  me  how." 

"In  the  most  usual  and  the  very  simplest  of  all  ways. 
I  am  your  mother's  brother.  My  sister  married  your 
father — is  that  plainer?  It's  as  plain  as  the  Table  of 
Affinity  can  make  it.  Your  father  and  I  were  in  business 
together;  by  that  I  mean  we  were  in  the  same  office.  I 
was  a  clerk.  He  was  senior  to  me  in  the  business,  in  age 
younger.  He  was  a  clerk  too.  He  had  brains  and  should 
have  got  on.  Your  mother  was  devoted  to  him,  I  was 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  141 

devoted  to  her.  I  cannot  think  how  she  came  to  call  you 
Douglas !" 

"Look  here,  my  name  is  neither  here  nor  there.  I've 
got  to  understand  this.  You  say  you  are  my  uncle,  and 
you  are  living  here  as  butler." 

Jaunty  raised  his  hand.  "Not  a  butler  exactly. — Wait! 
The  most  painful  part  has  to  come.  It  will  pain  you  even 
more  than  the  fact  that  your  uncle  is  a  butler,  but  it's 
got  to  come.  You  must  bear  it  like  a  man.  Your  father 
got  into  difficulties.  In  order  to  get  out  of  those  difficulties 
he  did  what  no  man  has  any  right  to  do,  under  any  circum- 
stances, to  save  himself  or  others — he  took  money  that 
wasn't  his  to  take,  meaning  of  course  to  pay  it  back.  He 
was  unable  to  pay  it  back.  The  suspicion  had  to  fall  on 
some  one;  it  fell  on  me.  For  your  mother's  sake  I  accepted 
the  blame.  I  was  forgiven  by  the  firm — or  rather  they 
refused  to  prosecute.  I  was  taken  on  again  in  considera- 
tion of  my  past  services,  and  the  whole  horrible  business 
was  hushed  up.  Your  father  left  'to  better  himself.'  He 
died  before  he  was  able  to  repay  the  monej.  Wait !  When 
young  Mr.  Lawrence — as  he  was  then — succeeded  to  a 
share  in  the  business  he  was  given  his  choice — under  old 
Mr.  Lawrence's  will — of  a  picture  or  a  piece  of  furniture. 
He  chose  me!  Yes,  it  was  funny,  I  admit;  but  I  adored 
him  for  it,  and  I  have  adored  him  for  it  ever  since.  Mr. 
Loan,  the  partner,  told  him  of  the  cloud  under  which  I 
lived.  He  didn't  care.  Possibly,  I  hope,  he  didn't  believe 
it  of  me;  anyhow,  he  forgave  me  and  trusted  me.  I  went 
to  him  as  librarian.  There  were  no  books  of  any  value  to 
care  for,  but  in  time  there  were  two  mugs,  two  porridge- 
bowls,  and  two  babies — and  very  little  money.  So  I 
became  butler,  or  whatever  you  choose  to  call  me.  My 
sacred  charge  has  been  those  two  children.  Their  mother 
left  them  to  me.  Miss  Sally  can  never  marry  my  nephew 
— never!  You  may  marry  a  duke's  daughter — I  cannot 
prevent  you — you  have  the  means  to  do  it,  no  doubt. 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

Your  mother  has  done  well  for  her  child — but  you  can't 
marry  here;  so  the  sooner  you  go,  the  better." 

"Does  my  mother  know?" 

"She  knows  nothing  beyond  the  fact  that  she  has  a 
brother  she  is  ashamed  of.  I  am  to  blame,  not  she.  I 
took  the  blame  to  shield  one  dear  to  her.  That  I  am  a 
very  bad  butler  she  has  no  idea.  She  doesn't  know  where 
I  am.  Once  a  year  I  write  and  tell  her  I  am  happy.  Don't 
spoil  her  happiness — or  mine!  Of  course,  what  I  have 
told  you  of  your  father  is  sacred?" 

"Well,  look  here,  Uncle — 'Jaunty' — is  that  it?  You 
must  own  that  this  is  something  of  a  blow.  You  can't 
expect  me  to  sit  down  under  it  and  say  nothing.  I  have 
been  kept  in  the  dark.  I  have  been  brought  up  to  look 
upon  you  .  .  ." 

"Not  even  as  a  bad  butler?"  said  Jaunty,  smiling. 

"No,  as — it's  beastly  unfair  on  you — I  hear  all  of  a 
sudden  that  my  father  ..." 

"I  am  sorry,  sir,"  said  Jaunty,  laying  his  hand  on  the 
young  man's  arm,  this  time  with  affectionate  tenderness. 
"Nothing  short  of  what  I  have  told  you  would  have  pre- 
vented you  making  love  to  Miss  Sally.  She's  got  to  marry 
well.  She  couldn't  marry  into  my  family — now  could 
she?" 

Douglas  saw  the  impossibility.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
marrying  Sally  had  not  entered  into  his  head,  but  he  could 
not  tell  this  uncle-butler  so,  who  expected  of  every  man 
that  he  should  at  least  wish  to  marry  her. 

"I  am  afraid,"  said  Jaunty,  "you  have  little  of  your  uncle 
in  you.  No  dislike — inherent  dislike  of  the  other  sex !  I 
now  recognise  you.  You  have  puzzled  me.  It  was  you  who 
was  at  the  restaurant  with  Miss  Pamela  that  evening  when, 
by  the  mercy  of  God,  I  took  her  away." 

Douglas  laughed,  "No,  no,  it  wasn't  so  bad  as  that.  She 
wanted  to  dine  at  an  Italian  restaurant.  Her  aunt  said  I 
might  take  her.  It  was  you,  Uncle  Jaunty,  who  made  the 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  143 

thing  impossible,  carrying  her  off  in  that  fashion  as  if  I 
had  kidnapped  her.     You  made  us  both  ridiculous." 

"It  made  me  very  unhappy  at  the  time.  Miss  Pamela 
ought  never  to  have  done  it." 

"But  now  that  you  know  she  went  out  with  your 
nephew  it  makes  it  all  quite  as  it  should  be — doesn't  it?" 

"It  keeps  the  scandal  in  the  family/'  admitted  Jaunty. 

"D'you  know  I  can  never  go  to  that  restaurant  again?" 
said  Douglas. 

"If  no  young  man  could  ever  again  enter  the  doors  of  a 
foreign  restaurant  with  a  member  of  the  opposite  sex,  it 
would  be  well,"  said  Jaunty  sententiously.  Then  he  added, 
"If  you  will  leave  quietly  now  it  shall  be  as  if  nothing 
had  ever  happened." 

And  Douglas  left  quietly;  what  else  could  he  do?  and, 
after  all,  what  had  happened?  Nothing.  Sally  had  dis- 
covered the  meaning  of  a  June  day,  that  was  all. 

What  troubled  Douglas  most  was — when  he  married 
should  he  have  to  ask  his  uncle  to  the  wedding?  It  pre- 
sented social  difficulties. 

Sally  watched  his  quiet  going.  He  no  longer  laughed. 
There  was  nothing  to  laugh  at.  It  was  a  poor  ending  to  a 
delightful  day. 

As  she  turned  from  the  gate  she  found  Jaunty  standing 
waiting,  with  Pomade  Divine  in  one  hand  and  a  box  of 
chocolates  in  the  other,  as  he  used  to  do  in  days  gone  by? 
Not  quite!  "Miss  Sally,"  he  said,  ^  "now  that  you  are 
eighteen  years  old  and  a  grown-up  young  lady  ..."  It 
was  too  gentle,  this ;  he  started  afresh. 

"You  have  no  right  to  speak  to  strange  young  men  in 
the  road  and  bring  them  home  to  lunch.  No  right,  miss. 
Neither  your  upbringing  nor  Serena's  cooking  justifies  it — 
or  you." 

"But,  Jaunty,"  pleaded  Sally,  "he  looked  so  trustworthy 
— so  different  from  other  men.  And,  do  you  know,  so  like 
you,  Jaunty.  Wasn't  that  amusing?  He  was  .  .  ." 

Here  Jaunty  heard  Mr.  Lawrence  calling  him  and  he 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

ran.     Sally  knew  her  father  hadn't  called,  and  she  knew 
Jaunty  had  only  gone  to  escape  a  difficulty. 

Within  a  day  or  two  a  letter  came  for  Jaunty.     It  was 
from  his  sister,  Mrs.  Bentleigh. 

"DEAR  JOHNSOH, — Douglas  has  told  me  what  has  moved  me 
profoundly.  You  are  a  butler — yet  not  quite  a  butler — I  am 
glad  of  that.  Are  you  happy?  Won't  you  let  me  give  you 
money  so  that  you  may  live  independently?  Bob's  partner, 
knowing  how  clever  Bob  was  with  money,  has  done  so  wonder- 
fully for  me.  Dear  Bob  died  just  too  soon.  His  partner  said 
he  looked  upon  my  affairs  as  a  sacred  trust.  He  invested  what 
I  had,  just  at  the  right  moment.  I  am  a  very  rich  woman.  It 
has  suddenly  struck  me  that  the  money  you  borrowed  from  the 
firm  has  possibly  never  been  repaid.  For  so  long  after  that 
unhappy  time  I  had  no  money  that  I  am  afraid  I  forgot  all 
about  it.  As  a  butler — where  you  are — you  can't  have  saved 
much.  Let  me  pay  it  for  you.  I  hear  you  are  called  Jaunty. 
That  absurd  name!  I  never  liked  it,  nor  did  I  ever  call  you  by 
it.  Now  do  tell  me  about  the  money  and  I  will  pay  it  into 
your  account.  Poor  dear  Johnson,  you  haven't  got  one,  of 
course. 

"Douglas  tells  me  you  sat  in  a  pantry  that  is  just  like  a  nice 
smoking-room,  and  that  there  is  a  deaf  parlourmaid  who  really 
does  the  parlour  work.  So  you  have  lived  in  the  family  of  Mrs. 
Arnold  Monk?  The  new  beauty.  You  didn't  bring  her  up  very 
well,  from  what  I  hear.  But  of  course  being  a  butler  you 
wouldn't  have  anything  to  do  with  that." 

Which  roused  Jaunty's  wrath  where  the  rest  of  the  letter 
had  left  him  unmoved.     He  must  answer  it  at  once. 

"DEAR  ERMYNTRTTDE,"  he  wrote, — "You  are  quite  wrong;  I 
had  everything  to  do  with  the  upbringing  of  Mrs.  Arnold  Monk 
— since  she  was  eleven,  I  mean;  in  bringing  her  out,  marrying 
her,  etc.  Up  till  then  she  was  brought  up  by  the  greatest  saint 
and  the  most  beautiful  woman  that  ever  lived.  If  she  is  a  little 
difficult  to  manage  it  is  that  she  was  born  so.  I  did  what  I 
could — and  so  did  her  father.  I  must  think  over  your  kind 
offer  about  the  money.  Yes,  I  am  a  very  bad  butler.  Douglas 
is  a  fine  young  man.  Don't  let  him  make  a  fool  of  himself  over 
this  caravaning  business — old  furniture,  unless  it  has  been  cared 
for  in  good  houses,  brings  moths  into  the  house  and  worse.  I 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  145 

am  glad  to  hear  from  you,  my  dear  Ermyntrude.    Mr.  Law- 
rence is  calling  me. — Your  affec.  brother, 

"JOHHSON  JOHNSON." 

Then  Jaunty  wrote  to  the  firm  of  Loan  and  Lawrence — 
he  wrote  privately  to  Mr.  Loan — and  asked  what  was  the 
sum  of  money,  with  interest,  that  he  owed  the  firm.  He 
saw  his  way  to  paying  it  back  sooner  than  he  had  thought 
possible. 

Mr.  Loan  answered  by  return  of  post  expressing  sur- 
prise at  the  receipt  of  Mr.  Johnson's  letter.  The  money 
had  been  repaid  years  ago.  In  fact,  a  few  days  after  he 
had  left  the  services  of  the  firm.  Mr.  Loan  added  that  he 
was  sorry  Mr.  Johnson  should  have  been  kept  in  ignorance 
of  this  fortunate  circumstance. 

The  letter  fell  from  Jaunty's  fingers  and  fluttered  to 
the  ground.  "All  these  years  it  had  been  paid — who  had 
paid  it?" 

Jaunty  thought  of  the  pile  that  lay  awaiting  only  the 
last  coins.  To  whom  now  should  he  pay  that  money — the 
money  he  had  saved?  He  would  pay  it  back  to  Mr. 
Lawrence.  In  some  way  or  other  .  .  . 

He  found  out  the  way. 

He  wrote  to  Mrs.  Lombard: 

"MADAM, — Mr.  Lawrence  seems  to  me  not  quite  himself. 
Nothing  serious,  but  will  you  come  down  and  judge  for  your- 
self? He  will  be  pleased  to  see  you  to  luncheon  any  day  you 
would  care  to  suggest. — Yours  obediently, 

"JAUNTY." 

Mrs.  Lombard  having  seen  that  Pamela  Monk  was  to 
be  of  some  account  in  the  social  world  had  opened  her  arms 
to  her,  and  was  quite  prepared  to  do  the  same  by  Sally,  of 
whom  Arnold  spoke  in  raptures.  It  was  quite  amusing 
finding  two  nieces  grown  up  without  having  had  any  of  the 
trouble  of  bringing  them  up.  So  she  wrote  to  Mr.  Law- 
rence suggesting  that  she  should  come  down  and  see  him 
and  make  friends  with  Sally,  of  whom  she  had  heard  most 
charming  things  spoken. 


146  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

"This  is  strange,  Jaunty,"  said  Mr.  Lawrence. 

"What,  sir?" 

"Mrs.  Lombard  is  coming  down  to  luncheon  one  day 
soon." 

"Will  you  make  it  a  fortnight  hence,  sir?" 

"Yes,  but  why?" 

It  had  to  do  with  kitchen  arrangements,  said  Jaunty. 

"Oh,"  said  Mr.  Lawrence,  "these  mysteries.  In  old 
days  there  was  never  any  difficulty  in  having  any  one  to 
luncheon." 

But  it  had  nothing  to  do  with  kitchen  arrangements  this 
time,  only  Jaunty  had  to  make  an  excuse.  He  must  have 
time.  He  wanted  a  fortnight. 

He  had  his  money  to  spend,  and  in  order  to  spend  it 
to  good  account  he  telegraphed  to  a  .well-known  firm  in 
London  to  send  down  a  fitter  with  patterns,  and  a  fitter 
came  down  with  patterns  and  took  the  measurements  of  a 
bewildered  Sally.  The  fitter  went  back  to  London,  and 
in  due  course  of  time  she  returned  with  frocks  that  fitted 
Sally  quite  remarkably  well — considering  that  she  never 
stood  still  for  one  minute.  There  were  cottons  and  mus- 
lins and  evening  frocks — all  chosen  by  Jaunty.  Was  the 
world  coming  to  an  end?  No,  but  Jaunty's  savings  were; 
and  at  a  given  moment  he  gave  the  signal,  and  back  to 
London  went  the  fitter — went,  not  only  with  the  frocks  that 
needed  altering,  but  with  vegetables  and  flowers  and  fresh 
eggs,  and  in  a  few  days  there  came  back  the  cardboard 
boxes  for  Sally,  and  she  was  the  best  dressed  woman  in 
Panslea,  or  so  Jaunty  thought.  But  not  even  the  sense  of 
being  well  dressed  could  please  her  now.  She  was  hurt 
and  angry — with  Jaunty.  In  vain  he  displayed  the  frocks, 
spreading  them  out  to  their  best  advantage,  pointing  out 
the  beauties  of  tucks — technical  words  failed  him;  but 
weren't  they  beautiful? 

But  Sally  would  have  none  of. them,  and  she  went  out 
and  sat  on  the  common  by  the  hour  alone,  and  Jaunty  was 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  147 

as  miserable  as  she  meant  him  to  be,  and  he  cursed  the  day 
that  had  brought  his  nephew  to  Panslea. 

A  few  days  after  the  accursed  nephew  had  been,  he  wrote 
to  his  uncle,  and  this  is  what  he  wrote: 

"DEAR  UNCLE  JAUNTY, — I've  been  thinking  a  lot  about  you. 
Look  here,  things  can't  go  on  as  they  are — I  didn't  treat  you 
the  other  day  as  I  now  wish  I  had  treated  you.  I  am  proud  of 
you.  I  am  fond  of  you.  You've  behaved  awfully  well.  I  can't 
bear  to  think  it  is  through  us  you  have  come  to  this.  I  must 
tell  you — it  seems  only  fair ! — that  I  have  never  thought  of  my 
poor  father  with  any  respect,  let  alone  affection.  He  made  my 
poor  mother  unhappy  in  many  more  ways  than  you  probably 
know.  You  spared  her  the  crowning  sorrow  and  I  can  never 
thank  you  enough;  but  we  must  start  fair. 

"In  the  first  place,  I  am  engaged  to  be  married.  I  feel  I 
ought  to  have  told  you  that  the  other  day.  She's  older  than 
your  Miss  Sally,  but  in  her  own  way,  I  think,  as  beautiful. 
Now  look  here,  Uncle  Jaunty.  I  want  you  to  be  one  of  us. 
Go  abroad,  travel — come  back,  and  there's  a  cottage  on  the  edge 
of  the  park  at  home,  a  jolly  little  place.  Live  there!  The 
money  is  no  difficulty.  I  have  heaps.  Just  come  and  show  us 
what  we  ought  to  be  and  to  do.  Hats  off  to  you,  Uncle  Jaunty ! 
— Your  affec.  nephew, 

"DOUGLAS." 

Over  the  reading  of  which  letter  Jaunty  shed  a  few 
tears,  as  much  at  the  dear  stupidity  of  the  boy  as  at  his 
kindness.  Leave  Mr.  Lawrence?  Not  for  all  the  cottages 
on  the  edges  of  parks  in  the  whole  wide  world.  But  he 
would  like  to  show  Mr.  Lawrence  that  letter.  He  couldn't, 
of  course. 

"I  should  never  have  thought  a  generation  could  have 
done  it!"  he  said. 


XIV 


"Nor  the  lilac  cotton  after  all,  please,  miss,"  wrote  Jaunty 
to  Anne,  and  Anne  put  on  a  blue  one  and  up  to  the  Law- 
rences she  went,  and  in  the  library  she  found  a  discon- 
solate Sally  sitting  dressed  in  a  lilac  cotton  the  very  exact 
copy  of  her  own,  and  she  smiled.  Of  course,  Jaunty  had 
seen  that  the  effect  would  be  utterly  spoilt  and  lost  upon 
Mrs.  Lombard  had  there  been  two  frocks  of  the  same  kind 
and  colour. 

"What  a  pretty  Sally!"  cried  Anne,  and  Sally  smiled 
sadly.  She  would  fain  have  been  less  pretty  to  have 
been  happier. 

"Heaven  only  knows,"  she  said,  "who's  paid  for  it  all. 
I  have  got  three  cottons  upstairs,  two  evening  dresses, 
stockings,  hats,  and  Daddy  Long  Legs  has  never  noticed 
any  of  them,  so  he  can't  have  paid  for  them.  It's  a 
mystery." 

"Pamela?"  suggested  Anne. 

"She  knows  I  don't  care  for  clothes  paid  for  by  other 
people." 

"Is  there  anything  you  do  care  for  at  the  moment?" 

Sally  turned  her  mournful  eyes  upon  Anne.  "How  did 
you  know?"  she  asked. 

"My  dear  child,  your  face  is  enough.  Look  here,  Sally, 
isn't  it  rather  ridiculous.  You  saw  him  once.  You  know 
nothing  about  him.  He  was  nice-looking,  but  a  little 
absurd.  .  .  ." 

"I  liked  that;  he  was  more  like  father  and  Jaunty  than 
any  man  I  have  ever  met — then  the  twins,  Pomp  and 
Circumstance  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  Sally;  but  do  cheer  up." 

And  Sally  said  she  was  cheerful  really.  She  was  enjoy- 

148 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  149 

ing  it  immensely.  She  was  only  trying  to  teach  Jaunty 
that  he  must  not  interfere.  She  really  must,  now  that 
she  was  grown  up,  do  what  she  liked.  Jaunty  was  growing 
quite  impossible.  Why  should  he  have  sent  Mr.  Bent- 
leigh  away?  because  it  was  Jaunty  who  did  it.  There 
was  no  doubt  about  that.  Everything  was  perfectly  all 
right  until  Mr.  Bentleigh  went  into  the  pantry.  He  had 
eaten  two  pancakes  at  lunch.  She  had  been  able  to  do 
what  Pamela  hadn't;  no  man  had  eaten  of  Serena's  pan- 
cakes for  the  dear  sake  of  Pamela. 

"I've  no  one  to  play  with  now,"  she  said  sadly. 

And  Anne,  judging  her  to  be  in  a  softened  mood,  took 
a  letter  out  of  her  pocket  and  began  reading  it.  It  was 
from  Jimmy.  She  anxiously  looked  up  from  time  to  time 
to  watch  Sally's  face.  It  brightened  at  the  mention  of 
polo  ponies  and  clouded  at  the  description  of  Jimmy's  dog 
that  had  been  mauled  by  a  cheetah.  "Poor  dear  Jimmy!" 
she  said,  and  when  Anne  had  finished  the  letter  Sally 
wondered  if  Jimmy  was  often  in  love? 

Here  was  Anne's  chance.  She  didn't  make  the  most  of 
it;  she  said  rather  sententiously  that  Jimmy  would  never 
change,  whereupon  Sally  exclaimed,  "How  dull  for  him; 
poor  Jimmy!"  and  there  remained  nothing  for  Anne  to 
say  but  that  she  thought  Sally  wasn't  improving  with  old 
age.  And  Sally  admitted  it.  She  was  growing  horrider 
and  horrider  every  moment. 

What  was  Aunt  Venetia  coming  for? 

"We  shall  soon  know,"  said  Anne,  and  at  that  moment 
a  car  stopped  at  the  door  and  out  of  it  stepped  Mrs. 
Lombard.  "The  same  old  place — the  same  old  things!" 
she  exclaimed  as  she  came  into  the  room,  bringing  with 
her  an  atmosphere  of  another  world,  a  much  larger  world, 
a  harder  world,  an  infinitely  richer  world,  but  a  world 
that  lacked  just  what  Panslea  had  that  made  it  what 
it  was. 

"A  kind  little  niece  would  have  come  to  meet  me,"  she 


150  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

said.  "What  a  pretty  child  it  is,  and  so  charmingly 
dressed.  Where's  your  father?" 

"I'll  tell  him/'  said  Sally.  "This  is  Anne  Beech" — 
introducing  her  with  a  wave  of  her  hand — "my  clothes 
are  copied  from  hers.  Jaunty  takes  the  patterns  as  he 
hands  the  plate  in  church;  Anne  doesn't  mind." 

"A  great  tribute,  isn't  it?"  said  Mrs.  Lombard,  smiling. 
"It  must  be  counted  to  you  for  righteousness." 

She  walked  round  the  room,  making  it  seem  absurdly 
small.  Anne  resented  the  way  she  did  it.  Anne  felt 
nothing  escaped  her  critical  eye,  no  contrivance  would 
deceive  or  amuse  her.  She  wouldn't  love  the  room  as 
Panslea  loved  it.  "You  never  knew  their  mother?"  she 
asked,  standing  Tbefore  the  portrait  of  Mrs.  Lawrence. 

Anne  said,  "Unfortunately,  no." 

"She  was  very  beautiful,  of  course  (that  doesn't  do  her 
justice),  but  she  was  the  last  kind  of  woman  my  dear 
brother  should  have  married;  he  wanted  some  one  practical 
to  balance  that  ridiculous  optimism  of  his." 

Anne  said  they  found  it  charming  in  Panslea. 

"Oh  yes!"  said  Mrs.  Lombard,  laughing.  "A  lot  of 
unmarried  women — oh,  I  beg  your  pardon!  you're  too 
young  to  count,  and  .  .  ." 

Mr.  Lawrence  came  in.  "Venetia,  Venetia,"  he  ex- 
claimed, "my  dear,  my  dear — after  all  these  years !" 

"Don't  say  that,  John;  it  ought  not  to  have  been  all 
these  years,  but,  after  all,  London  is  nearer  to  Panslea 
than  Panslea  to  London.  Your  Pamela  has  established 
herself  a  beauty.  But  where  did  she  learn  her  little — her 
astonishingly  attractive  little  ways?  Arnold  is  quite  be- 
wildered, poor  man. — Dear  John,  it  looks  just  the  same." 
She  put  her  hands  on  her  brother's  shoulders  and  looked 
at  him  searchingly,  and  as  she  looked  she  laughed,  very 
softly. 

"A  little  older,"  admitted  Mr.  Lawrence,  "and  a  little 
shabbier,  but  just  the  same,  I'm  glad  to  say.  You've 
seen  Sally — and  Jaunty?" 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  151 

"Jaunty  opened  the  door  to  me,  I  believe.  I  didn't 
look,  but  .  .  ."  She  released  John,  shaking  him  affection- 
ately as  she  did  it. 

"But  we  all  look  at  Jaunty  in  Panslea — he  expects  it; 
and  Miss  Beech?"  Mr.  Lawrence  turned  to  Anne. 

"Miss  Beech?     I  have  offended  her,  I'm  afraid." 

"Anne  offended?     Never!" 

"No?"  asked  Mrs.  Lombard,  and  Anne  shook  her  head. 
She  thought  Mrs.  Lombard  too  much  of  a  goose  to  bother 
about  except  as  Sally's  aunt.  Anne  was  wrong  there; 
Mrs.  Lombard  was  no  goose,  but  how  she  could  be  Mr. 
Lawrence's  sister  was  'a  puzzle.  In  appearance  she  was 
not  unlike  him.  She  had  the  same  eyes  without  their 
twinkle,  the  same  smile  without  its  friendliness. 

Jaunty  announced  luncheon.  He  enjoyed  doing  it,  and 
did  it  after  the  manner  of  a  toastmaster  at  a  city  dinner. 

Mrs.  Lombard  sat  down  critical.  She  rose  impressed. 
She  assured  John  he  had  an  excellent  cook.  He  knew  it. 
"You  must  be  introduced  to  her  afterwards,"  he  said. 
"Poor  dear  Serena,  she  has  done  well  to-day;  she  has 
improved  wonderfully." 

Sally  kicked  her  father  under  the  table.  He  told  her 
not  to  be  afraid,  he  wasn't  going  to  say  anything  about 
Serena's  leg.  "It  doesn't  make  her  less  of  a  cook,  though, 
Sally,  does  it?"  Now  Sally  was  kicking  her  father  not 
because  of  Serena's  wooden  leg,  but  because  it  was  poor 
Mademoiselle  out  in  the  backyard  who  was  responsible  for 
the  souffle.  It  would  never  do  if  Aunt  Venetia  went  out 
and  said  grace  to  Serena.  Besides  they  were  out  to  deceive 
Aunt  Venetia.  She  had  got  to  think  they  had  an  excellent 
cook.  Serena  was  too  honest  to  play  the  part  face  to  face. 

"And  who  else  lives  in  the  village?" 

Mr.  Lawrence  said  there  were  so  many.  Mrs.  Lombard 
said  she  meant  of  people  who  counted. 

Mr.  Lawrence  said  there  was  Mrs.  Hill. 

"Who  is  she?" 

"A  farmer's  wife." 


152  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

"And  an  angel/'  added  Sally. 

Mrs.  'Lombard  laughed.  "A  delightful  combination. 
Who  else — less  celestial?" 

"Janet  Mason/'  suggested  Mr.  Lawrence. 

"Oh  yes,  Michael  Mason's  sister.  He  told  me.  He's 
charming — deeply  in  love,  I'm  told.  He's  been  making 
money  lately.  The  Stock  Exchange  is  booming — I'm  glad. 
Tiresome  sister  rather — I'm  afraid." 

"He  doesn't  think  so,  I'm  sure,"  said  Sally.  "She 
adores  him." 

"What  a  champion  the  child  is !"  said  her  aunt,  looking 
at  Sally  and  laughing. 

Luncheon  passed  off  triumphantly.  As  Jaunty  put  the 
coffee-tray  down  on  the  oak  chest  in  the  library,  he  whis- 
pered to  Sally,  "It's  gone  off  splendidly,  miss." 

"Splendidly!"  whispered  Sally.  "Sugar,  Aunt 
Venetia?" 

"Sugar  and  black,  please."  She  raised  her  eyebrows 
as  she  tasted  the  coffee.  "Excellent,  John,  quite  excellent. 
John,  I've  been  under  a  complete  misapprehension.  I 
thought  you  were  happy  but  uncomfortable."  She  stirred 
her  coffee  thoughtfully.  "I  never  suggested  coming  be- 
cause I  didn't  want  to  put  you  to  any  inconvenience — to 
stay,  I  mean." 

Sally  was  making  faces  at  her  father.  He  saw  them 
but  didn't  know  what  they  were  meant  to  convey. 

"There  was  my  maid,"  went  on  Mrs.  Lombard. 

"We're  very  comfortable,  Venetia — your  maid  need  have 
no  fears.  She  could  dine  with  Jaunty,  if  we  weren't  grand 
enough."  Mr.  Lawrence's  eyes  twinkled. 

"It's  all  very  well  to  laugh,  John,  but  there's  no  one 
in  the  world  so  difficult  as  servants.  They  know  at  once." 

"We  have  no  difficulties.  They  are  quite  comfortable 
here — perhaps  more  so  than  we  are.  We  can't  afford  young 
servants,  but  we  can  have  as  many  old  ones  as  the  house 
will  hold.  It's  quite  simple.  I'm  told  people  won't  engage 
an  old  housemaid.  Why  not?  If  you  have  one  to  each 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  153 

floor  and  give  her  plenty  of  time  I  don't  see  that  age  mat- 
ters. Old  ones  eat  less  than  young  ones,  and  are  quick  to 
see  their  position.  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Lombard  laid  her  hand  on  John's.  "Don't,  dear; 
you  mustn't  carry  this  nonsense  too  far.  There  are  people 
who  might  believe  you.  Do  you  know  what  is  said  of  you 
in  London  ? — That  you  have  a  blind  man  to  teach  your  girls 
drawing,  a  deaf  man  to  teach  them  music  .  .  ." 

"Did  they  happen  to  mention  a  bedridden  lady  to  teach 
them  French?"  asked  Mr.  Lawrence. 

"But  that  is  true,  John?" 

"And  they  stopped  at  that,  did  they?" 

When  Jaunty  came  in  for  the  tray  he  looked  at  Anne, 
looked  so  pointedly  that  she  blushed,  rose  and  suggested 
to  Mrs.  Lombard  that  they  should  go  round  the  garden 
together.  Jaunty  walked  round  by  Mr.  Lawrence,  frowned 
at  him,  then  on  to  Sally  and  frowned  at  her,  which  evi- 
dently meant  that  they  were  to  stay  where  they  were,  and 
that  Anne  was  to  take  Mrs.  Lombard  round  'the  garden. 
Mrs.  Lombard  said  she  would  be  delighted.  But  really 
there  were  few  things  she  disliked  more  than  walking 
round  gardens.  Country  people  always  gave  names  to 
everything  in  the  beds  and  borders,  and  they  were  never 
the  names  by  which  she  knew  the  same  flowers  in  pots  and 
tubs  at  those  horticultural  shows  to  which  she  and  others 
possessing  no  gardens  go — note-books  in  hand — trying  to 
look  as  though  they  had  planted  and  potted  and  weeded 
and  sown  and  gathered  all  the  days  of  their  long  London 
lives. 

"It's  badly  kept,  isn't  it?"  she  said  as  she  walked  with 
Anne. 

Anne  said  she  loved  it.  To  Panslea  it  was  the  model 
of  what  a  garden  should  be. 

"Well,  perhaps  not  the  garden  particularly.  Nature 
covers  a  multitude  of  sins  at  this  time  of  year.  But  the 
front  gate  wants  painting." 


154  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

Anne  admitted  it,  adding  that  the  man  who  should  have 
painted  it  had  a  stroke  last  winter  and  couldn't. 

"Do  you  mean  his  workmen  struck  ? — wretches !" 

"No;  his  heart,  and  his  dear  old  legs,  and  his  brain — the 
only  workman  he  has." 

Mrs.  Lombard  supposed  some  one  else  might  have  done 
it;  but  Anne  said  that  wasn't  Mr.  Lawrence's  way.  It 
was  the  old  man's  job.  Mrs.  Lombard  dug  furiously  at 
an  innocent  weed  with  the  point  of  her  sunshade.  "But 
if  he  couldn't?" 

"Mr.  Lawrence  wouldn't  let  him  see  any  one  else  do  it. 
The  old  man  lies  in  a  window  from  which  he  can  watch  that 
gate,"  said  Anne. 

"My  dear  Miss  Beech,  I  wonder  if  you  realise  how 
exasperating  all  this  is  to  the  ordinary  prosaic  and  practical 
mind  ?" 

Anne  said  she  had  some  slight  idea,  from  what  Lord 
Bridlington  said. 

"Now  he's  a  sensible  man,"  said  Mrs.  Lombard.  "And 
it  makes  him  angry,  does  it?" 

"He  admires  Sally  very  much,"  said  Anne  hastily, 
remembering  her  duty  towards  Jaunty.  "What  do  you 
think  of  her?" 

Mrs.  Lombard  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  path  and, 
pulling  the  end  of  Anne's  tie  straight,  said  she  thought 
Sally  extremely  taking — astonishingly  so.  She  shouldn't 
be  surprised  if  she  became  a  great  success. 

"You'll  take  her  to  London  and  give  her  the  chance?" 
suggested  Anne. 

"Of  course.  I  imagine  that  is  why  I  am  here  to-day, 
isn't  it?" 

Anne  couldn't  deny  it. 

"I  don't  mind.  I  shall  be  glad  to  do  it.  The  child 
has  more  sense,  I  should  say,  than  Pamela.  Pamela  goes 
too  far.  She  has  no  right  to  do  it — yet!  So  recently 
married,  her  position  unassured.  It  doesn't  do.  People 
are  beginning  to  talk ;  she's  an  outrageous  flirt." 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  155 

Anne  said  she  didn't  think  so. 

"My  dear  Miss  Beech,  you  don't  know!  Who  did  she 
ever  see?  Arnold  Monk,  and  married  him — the  first  man 
who  asked  her." 

"Oh  no/'  said  Anne. 

"Oh  yes,  if  you  leave  out  quite  impossible  people. 
Well,  she's  talked  about  now.  I  see  no  harm  in  the  child 
and  an  immense  amount  of  charm,  but  .  .  ." 

"You  will  see  Jaunty  about  it?"  suggested  Anne. 

"Jaunty — why  Jaunty?    What  has  he  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"Everything." 

"The  butler?" 

"Well,  he  isn't  a  butler  .  .  ." 

Then  came  the  unexpected.  Mrs.  Lombard  stopped, 
begged  Anne  to  go  no  farther.  She  was  quite  excited. 
"Now  wait,  how  does  it  go?  He  isn't  a  butler — exactly. 
Isn't  that  it?  Now  do  tell  me  what  does  that  absurd 
joke  mean?  It's  all  over  London.  It's  making  Arnold 
Monk  ridiculous.  Everything  is  'not  exactly.'  If  any  one 
says  Arnold  is  married,  some  one  says  'Not  exactly.'  " 

"It's  a  silly  Panslea  joke,"  explained  Anne.  "It  has 
become  the  ordinary  way  of  describing  Jaunty.  There's 
nothing  in  it.  Jaunty  isn't  a  butler — exactly.  It's  a  silly 
joke  of  Pamela's." 

At  that  moment  Mr.  Lawrence  joined  the  two  women. 
"Jaunty  wishes  to  see  you,  Venetia,"  he  said,  putting  his 
hand  on  his  sister's  arm.  "He  expressed  it  more  politely. 
'Would  you  grant  him  an  interview — kindly  grant/  those 
were  his  words." 

"My  dear  John,  the  impertinence !  Send  the  ridiculous 
creature  to  me." 

And  the  ridiculous  creature  came  and  stood  beside  Mrs. 
Lombard  under  the  trees.  She  looked  at  him  as  though 
he  were  some  strange  and  rare  animal.  He  was  uncon- 
scious of  it.  Here  was  a  chance  of  doing  something  for  his 
young  lady,  and  he  was  going  to  do  it  in  the  best  way  he 
could. 


156  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

It  turned  out  to  be  a  better  way  than  he  knew.  Very 
quietly  and  simply  he  took  Mrs.  Lombard  through  the 
last  twenty  years  of  his  life  at  Panslea.  He  described  to 
her  the  day  on  which,  over  this  very  lawn,  Mr.  Lawrence 
had  led  his  bride.  He  described  Mrs.  Lawrence  as  she 
had  looked  then.  He  alluded  briefly  to  the  birth  of  the 
children.  It  seemed  still  fraught  with  mystery — the  won- 
der of  their  coming.  He  described  their  bringing  up — his 
small  share  in  the  great  adventure.  He  told  her  much 
about  Mr.  Lawrence — much  that  was  astonishing,  much 
that  was  touching,  much  that  recalled  to  her  John's  young 
days  and  hers  together.  He  had  been  a  wonderful  brother. 
He  was  apparently  as  delightful  a  father — though  an 
impossible  one.  This  strange  old  man  made  her  feel  for 
her  brother,  in  his  sorrow,  as  she  had  never  felt.  She 
had  never  realised  the  depth  of  his  grief,  for  she  had  never 
troubled  to  understand  the  height  of  his  love.  The  death 
of  his  wife  had  seemed  to  her  a  sad  ending  to  a  very 
pretty  fairy  tale.  Too  pretty  to  be  true — too  charming 
to  last.  Jaunty  had  made  her  see  that  it  must  always 
last — it  was  too  true  not  to  last.  It  was  lasting  now  under 
these  trees;  it  lived  in  this  old  man's  face. 

Jaunty  touched  lightly  on  the  subject  of  Sally's  clothes. 
The  colours  that  suited  her,  the  styles,  what  she  should 
wear  at  night;  the  way  in  which  her  hair  should  be  done, 
and  it  seemed  all  vaguely  familiar  to  Mrs.  Lombard.  She 
could  see  Sally  so  dressed.  But  how?  It  was  impossible. 
Then  she  remembered  Mrs.  Lawrence's  portrait.  Jaunty 
didn't  march  with  the  times.  Matilda  was  right.  As  he 
remembered  Mrs.  Lawrence  he  wanted  to  see  Sally. 

At  the  end  of  it  all  Mrs.  Lombard  said,  "Well,  Jaunty, 
I  should  like  to  know  which  is  the  quainter,  you  or  your 
master?"  And  Jaunty  must  have  asked  for  notice  of  the 
question  if  he  would  have  answered  it  truthfully.  Answer- 
ing in  a  hurry  he  would  have  said  there  was  little  to  choose 
between  them,  and  Mrs.  Lombard  must  have  agreed  with 
him. 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  167 

She  went  back  to  London,  and  in  the  course  of  a  few 
days  Sally  was  to  follow. 

"It  will  be  lonely,  Jaunty,"  said  Mr.  Lawrence,  as 
Jaunty  addressed  labels. 

"It  will  be  that,  sir,  but — as  you  say — if  you  bring 
young  creatures  into  the  world  you  have  got  to  see  them 
through." 

"Did  I  say  it?  If  you  mean  by  seeing  them  through, 
marriage,  I  want  her  to  marry  the  man  she  loves  .  .  ." 

"She  shall  do  that.  It  becomes  our  business  to  see  she 
loves  the  right  one." 

"I  liked  that  young  man  who  came  the  other  day.  You 
remember  him?" 

"Yes,  sir."    Was  Jaunty  likely  to  forget  him? 

"A  fine  young  man — honest  and  straightforward,"  said 
Mr.  Lawrence. 

"Not  quite  a  gentleman,  sir,  if  you  ask  me." 

"I  didn't  ask  you." 

"No,  sir,  that's  why  I  made  a  point  of  saying  it." 


XV 


ON  a  summer's  day  Sally  went  to  London,  and  when  the 
evening  was  come  the  men  home  from  their  work  sat 
smoking  in  the  doorways  of  their  cottages,  and  they  talked 
of  Mr.  Lawrence.  One  had  passed  him  in  the  road  look- 
ing lonesome  like.  Women  sat  on  the  walls  of  their  neigh- 
bours' gardens,  their  babies  in  their  arms,  and  they  too 
talked  of  Mr.  Lawrence,  and  what  was  he  going  to  do 
now,  Miss  Sally  gone?  Miss  Sally  grown  up?  He  would 
be  lonely.  He  must  feel  strange.  Could  any  one  believe 
it?  and  she  a  baby  a  few  years  ago!  Didn't  most  of  them 
remember  her  christening?  Her  first  Sunday  in  church, 
when  she  was  three,  how  she  had  talked!  Bless  her  little 
heart!  She  had  asked  in  a  loud  voice,  When  the  puff-puff 
was  going  to  start?  A  pew  was  like  a  train,  too — to  a 
child  it  would  be,  not  knowing  any  better.  And  when  her 
mother  died!  Didn't  she  take  on  terrible,  poor  child?  It 
was  terrifying,  wasn't  it?  And  she  would  marry  just  as 
quickly  as  Miss  Pamela  had  married.  Most  likely.  She 
was  more  of  a  beauty — some  thought.  Others  not. — Well, 
more  pleasing?  Yes,  there  was  no  doubt  about  that.  Old 
Grandfather  Wedgewood  said  she  was  her  mother  all  over 
again — no  difference  that  he  could  see  without  his  spec- 
tacles— and  no  one  like  her  mother  had  ever  been  seen  in 
Panslea  Church.  There  was  queer  old  Mr.  Jaunty  wan- 
dering about  as  if  he  had  lost  a  child — and  he  had;  they 
all  had,  if  it  came  to  that.  If  praying  for  a  child  makes 
her  yours,  there  wasn't  one  in  Panslea  that  hadn't  a 
share. 

Anne  and  Janet  sat  talking  in  Anne's  garden. 

Anne  said  it  seemed  so  quiet  without  Sally.  Janet 
wondered  how  that  could  be  when  she  had  only  just  left. 
There  had  hardly  been  time  to  notice  a  difference. 

158 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  159 

"Everything  looks  different  to  me,"  said  Anne.  Janet 
was  too  matter-of-fact. 

"I  think/'  said  Janet,  "that  Sally  is  very  lucky.  Every 
one  seems  to  behave  as  if  she  belonged  to  them,  and  no 
one  ever  seems  to  think  she  can  do  wrong.  I  suppose 
she  isn't  very  different  after  all  to  other  people — except 
that  she's  prettier." 

Anne  said  nothing,  and  Janet  wondered  what  would 
happen  to  Mademoiselle.  "She  can't  go,  because  she  is 
partially  paralysed.  Can  she?" 

Anne  said  she  wouldn't  go  if  she  were  ten  times  a  centi- 
pede and  in  full  possession  .  .  . 

Janet  hastened  to  say  she  couldn't  imagine  Mademoiselle 
a  centipede. 

Anne  hadn't  said  she  could. 

"She  will  stay,  you  think?"  persisted  Janet. 

Anne  was  certain  of  it.  Mr.  Lawrence  would  never 
let  her  go  back  to  that  home.  "No;  she  will  be  here  to 
teach  Sally's  children  French." 

"You  think  Sally  will  marry  at  once?" 

That  Anne  could  not  tell.  She  was  in  no  speculative 
mood. 

"I  wonder  if  some  one  is  hopelessly  in  love  with  her,  as 
there  was  with  Pamela?"  said  Janet,  and  she  looked  to  the 
heavens  to  answer  her,  since  Anne's  shrugged  shoulders 
meant  that  Heaven  alone  knew. 

"Who  was  hopelessly  in  love  with  Pamela?"  asked  Anne, 
not  giving  the  heavens  a  chance.  "And  your  grammar, 
Janet — it's  atrocious  !" 

"Oh,  I  mustn't  say — I  promised  Michael  I  wouldn't. 
But  it's  so  long  ago,  isn't  it?  Grammar?  I  never  could 
do  grammar." 

"Michael?"  said  Anne,  "your  Michael?" 

"Yes,  didn't  you  know?"  Janet  was  surprised;  if  the 
heavens  weren't  telling  she  thought  that  Anne  at  least 
would  have  heard  from  some  one.  Anne  shook  her  head. 

"You  didn't  know? — Well,  I  don't  think  she  would  have 


160  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

made  him  a  good  wife,"  she  said,  not  daring  to  add,  "but 
you,  dear  Anne,  would." 

There  were  moments  when  Anne  was  austere;  this  was 
one  of  them. 

Janet  looked  at  her.  Anne  stooped  down  to  pick  a 
flower.  She  threw  it  to  Janet,  threw  it  on  to  her  lap. 
"Why  don't  you  ask  him  down?"  she  asked. 

"Would  he  come?"  wondered  Janet. 

"Ask  him." 

A  load  was  lifted  from  Anne's  heart — to  be  replaced 
by  a  feeling  of  agonised  shame.  She  had  been  imagining 
Michael  in  love  with  her.  She  had  been  discouraging  him 
to  the  best  of  her  ability,  imagining  herself  kind,  and 
it  had  been  Pamela  all  the  time!  "Do  ask  him  down, 
Janet,  it's  so  dull." 

She  must  let  Michael  see  that  it  would  be  delightful 
to  have  him  down  as  a  friend,  and  if  as  a  friend  who 
wanted  consoling,  all  the  better;  but  as  a  lover  he  had 
proved  dull — too  much  Janet's  brother.  "Do,  Janet,  it's 
dull,"  she  repeated. 

"Dull  without  Sally?"  objected  Janet.  "Why,  she  has 
this  moment  I  should  say  reached  London." 

"Are  you  and  your  brother  alike?"  asked  Anne. 

Janet  indignantly  denied  it.  "Michael  says  I  am 
frightfully  matter-of-fact.  Why,  he  sleeps  all  the  time 
I  am  with  him,"  and  Anne  felt  for  Michael — and  she 
closed  her  eyes. 

Janet,  glad  at  last  to  be  of  some  importance  in  Panslea 
(she  had  felt  sadly  neglected),  wrote  to  Michael  and  said 
Anne  wanted  him  to  come  down;  and  of  course  he  came 
down  by  the  earliest  train  he  could  catch  on  a  Friday 
afternoon.  And  at  tea-time  he  was  sitting  in  Anne's 
garden,  drinking  Anne's  tea,  and  gazing  at  her  with  a 
pathetic  gratitude  in  his  eyes.  Anne  thought  it  very  odd 
that  a  man  so  lately  in  love  with  one  girl  should  look  at 
another  as  he  was  looking  at  her.  She  didn't  like  him  any 
the  better  for  it.  So  she  was  cold  and  distant,  and  he 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  161 

wondered  why  in  the  world  she  had  asked  him  down  if  it 
was  to  treat  him  like  this?  So  he  hurried  away,  and  as  he 
and  Janet  walked  back  to  the  farm  she  asked  him  if  it 
had  been  as  bad  as  he  had  expected,  adding  that  he  was 
a  dear,  brave  old  thing — that  she  was  proud  of  him. 

"What  was  as  bad?"  he  wanted  to  know.  Everything 
was  bad. 

"Without  Pamela." 

"Without  Pamela?  What's  Pamela  got  to  do  with  me, 
or  me  with  Pamela?" 

Janet  stood  still  in  the  road,  and  was  nearly  run  over 
by  the  curate  who  came  round  the  corner  on  his  bicycle, 
without  ringing  his  bell.  She  wasn't  run  over,  so  why 
think  about  it?  And  she  went  on  standing  and  looking  at 
Michael  in  wonder  and  amazement.  Had  he  gone  out  of 
his  mind? 

"Nothing  to  do  with  Pamela?"  she  exclaimed.  "You 
said  you  were  in  love  with  her." 

"I?— Never." 

"Never?" 
h   "Never." 

"Well,  why  were  you  so  angry,  then,  when  you  saw  her 
in  the  restaurant?" 

"A  motherless  girl,  that's  all.  She  hadn't  any  one  to 
look  after  her.  ..." 

"The  influence  again,"  thought  Janet.  "How  strange!" 
Then  she  said,  "It's  a  very  wonderful  thing,  Michael.  It 
seems  to  me  that  dying  is  much  less  than  I  ever  thought  it 
was.  I  thought  you  were  in  love  with  ..." 

"That  I  can't  help." 

"Then,  who?" 

"Why,  Anne,  of  course;  always  has  been  Anne,  always 
will  be  Anne,"  and  he  walked  on  quickly,  and  Janet  trot- 
ted beside  him;  then  he  stopped,  cut  at  a  weed  with  his 
stick,  and  said,  "She  asked  me  down  here,  probably  be- 
cause you  told  her  it  was  Pamela?" 


162  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

Janet  picked  up  the  weed,  jerked  it  into  the  hedge,  and 
said  she  was  afraid  so. 

"Well,  Jane,  my  dear,  I  never  thought  you  brilliant, 
but  ..."  and  he  walked  on,  she  trotting  after  him.  "Have 
you  ever  tried  to  make  her  like  you?"  she  said.  "Do  try, 
Michael  dear — I'm  sure  you  could.  You  look  so  nice  and 
sunburnt,"  and  with  that  very  encouraging  remark  she 
marched  up  to  the  farm,  went  to  her  bedroom  and  cried. 

And  Michael  sat  in  the  sitting-room  and  smoked — and 
Anne  went  to  the  post  office  to  get  Jimmy's  letter,  which 
was  due.  The  letter  was  there.  Mrs.  Stitchwort  at  the 
post  office  knew  more  about  letters  than  most  people  in 
Panslea,  and  as  she  handed  this  one  to  Anne  across  the 
counter  she  said,  "The  young  gentleman  well?" 

Anne  said,  Very  well — she  hoped.     He  always  was. 

"That's  right,"  said  Mrs.  Stitchwort.  "I  didn't  like  the 
look  of  the  stamp,  that's  all." 

"The  stamp?"  asked  Anne;  "in  what  way  can  one  stamp 
differ  from  another?" 

"Lor',  miss,  there's  a  wonderful  deal  of  difference,  to 
my  mind.  A  feverish  stamp  this  was,  I  thought,  put  on 
feverishly  like.  Maybe  I'm  wrong,  we've  got  to  be  wrong 
some  day.  There's  the  lover's  stamp,  that's  always  to  be 
known.  I  could  show  you  three  to-day — but  my  position 
is  official  and  I  don't  forget  it.  The  lover's  stamp  is  al- 
ways to  be  known.  The  business  stamp,  that's  quite  clear 
— quite  straight.  There's  the  worried  stamp.  You've  got 
to  do  with  letters  a  deal  before  you  see  the  signs.  And 
the  stuck-down  envelopes.  There's  character  for  the  read- 
ing! The  suspicious  writer,  you  know  that?  You've  got 
to  take  a  hairpin  to  it — nothing  else  for  it.  No  room  for 
so  much  as  a  little  finger,"  and  she  held  up  her  little  finger 
to  emphasise  her  point. 

"I  see,"  said  Anne;  "it's  very  interesting.  Good-day, 
Mrs.  Stitchwort." 

"Mind,  miss,"  said  Mrs.  Stitchwort,  following  her  to 
the  door,  "I  don't  say  I'm  right  about  the  feverish  stamp — 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  163 

the  lover's  stamp  is  so  near  to  it — one  of  a  family,  I  say. 
Good-day,  miss." 

Anne  opened  the  letter  before  she  got  home.  She  leant 
on  a  gate  to  read  it,  and  as  she  finished  it  she  raised  her 
eyes  to  the  view  she  loved ;  but  she  saw  nothing  because  of 
the  mist  of  tears  that  were  in  her  eyes. 

She  brushed  them  away  and  looked  at  the  stamp.  What 
nonsense!  How  could  Mrs.  Stitchwort  have  told? 

Yet  it  was  true.  Jimmy  had  fever.  He  wrote  a  cheer- 
ful letter,  a  letter  full  of  hope  and  comfort — but  for  all 
that  he  was  ill.  She  hadn't  the  money  to  go  to  him,  and 
if  she  had  she  knew  it  wouldn't  be  sister  Anne  he  watched 
for.  She  went  back  to  the  post  office  and  telegraphed  to 
Sally,  "Write  to  Jimmy;  he's  rather  ill — cheer  him  up." 

And  Sally  wrote  to  him  and  told  him  she  had  fallen  in 
love,  and  she  described  how  the  young  man  had  come  to 
Panslea,  travelling  in  furniture;  told  him  how  she  had 
fallen  in  love  with  him  for  the  sake  of  the  twin  horses — 
how  Jaunty  had  sent  him  away — how  she  couldn't  really 
enjoy  herself  when  she  was  so  badly  treated.  How,  in 
spite  of  it  all,  she  was  enjoying  herself  immensely — how 
she  hoped  Jimmy  was,  in  spite  of  his  not  being  well.  Of 
course  by  the  time  this  letter  reached  him  he  would  be  as 
jolly  as  possible.  Then  she  told  him  Panslea  news,  Jaunty 
news,  Anne  news,  Janet  news,  and  every  news  she  could 
think  of,  and  she  addressed  the  envelope  to  Jimmy,  stamped 
it  and  posted  it.  But  by  the  time  the  letter  reached  India 
he  was  beyond  the  reach  of  all  letters,  and  the  Colonel's 
daughter — to  help  her  mother — made  a  packet  of  Jimmy's 
letters  that  had  just  come  out  by  the  mail  and  sent  them 
back  to  England.  The  only  one  she  looked  at  with  any 
interest  was  Sally's,  because  it  was  evidently  written  by  a 
girl — it  was  a  girl's  handwriting,  and  not  his  sister's;  hers 
she  knew.  Had  there  been  some  one  else  who  loved  him? 
And  had  he  loved  her?  Was  that  why  nothing  had  ever 
come  right? 

And  the  girl's  mother  coming  into  the  room,  and  finding 


164  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

her  child  crying,  put  her  arms  round  her  and  said,  "My 
darling,  I  wish  you  had  the  right  to  do  this — I  wish  you 
had!  But  you  must  remember  you  haven't." 

Mrs.  Stitch  wort  had  handed  sorrow  over  the  counter 
before  this  in  Panslea,  and  many  a  time  she  had  done  it 
with  a  heavy  heart;  but  this  was  worse  than  anything  in 
her  day.  She  couldn't  hand  such  a  message  to  any  one, 
least  of  all  to  one  who  could  never  be  a  mother,  so  she 
said  to  the  boy  who  waited  to  take  the  telegram,  "No, 
Johnnie,  I'll  take  it — it's  for  Miss  Beech.  You  shall  have 
the  penny;  it's  a  penny  she  gives  you?" 

"No,  a  bun;  I  likes  buns,"  he  said,  and  by  the  look  of 
him  he  spoke  the  truth. 

Mrs.  Stitchwort  took  down  from  the  peg  her  deerstalk- 
er's cap,  put  it  on,  and  went  up  the  village  way.  Coming 
to  the  door  of  Miss  Beech's  cottage  she  stood  still  and 
prayed.  Inside  the  cottage  she  could  hear  Miss  Beech 
singing.  What  could  prayer  do  for  Mrs.  Stitchwort  now? 
Nothing  could  give  her  the  power  to  soften  the  telling  of 
this  tragedy.  She  knocked  at  the  door.  Anne  opened  it. 

The  first  thing  Anne  saw  was  the  deerstalker's  cap.  She 
knew  it  was  kept  for  the  woodshed  and  the  backyard.  Why 
had  Mrs.  Stitchwort  put  it  on?  Why  had  she  come  her- 
self? She  hadn't  meant  to  come  out.  She  had  put  on 
the  thing  nearest  to  hand — in  a  hurry! 

"A  telegram?"  said  Anne.  She  held  out  her  hand.  It 
trembled.  "How  kind  of  you  to — bring  it  yourself." 

"My  dear,  my  dear,  who  else?"  and  then  Anne  knew. 

She  dropped  into  a  chair  and  sat  crouched  there  with 
her  elbows  on  her  knees,  her  face  in  her  hands.  On  her 
shoulder  rested  tenderly  Mrs.  Stitchwort's  work-roughened 
hand.  "It  came  to  me  once  myself,  miss,"  she  whispered. 
"I  got  the  news  straight  of  my  boy  ..." 

"No  kind  friend  to  tell  you — gently.  I  am  more  fortu- 
nate— than  you  were,"  said  Anne;  and  Mrs.  Stitchwort 
went,  and  as  she  went  up  the  village  way  her  tears  spread 
the  news — first  to  Jaunty,  then  to  the  Vicar,  then  to  the 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  165 

children  playing  in  the  road,  then  to  Miss  Mason  and  Mr. 
Mason,  and  Mr.  Mason  turned  hurriedly  and  made  for 
Anne's  cottage.  Mrs.  Stitchwort  watched;  saw  him  open 
the  door,  go  in  and  close  it.  "I'm  glad  of  that,"  she  sobbed, 
jerking  her  thumb  in  the  direction  of  the  cottage,  to  which 
all  eyes  were  turned.  "It's  what  a  woman  wants — a  friend 
that's  closer  than  a  brother." 

Jaunty  went  home. 

"There's  bad  news  for  Miss  Beech,  sir,"  he  said  to  Mr. 
Lawrence. 

"Then  it's  bad  news  for  us  all,  Jaunty." 

"There's  special  reason  to  mourn  in  this  house,  sir." 

Mr.  Lawrence  said  indeed  there  was,  for  he  guessed 
what  news  it  was  Jaunty  brought. 

"Yes — and  more  than  you  think.  He  cared  for — Miss 
Sally;  I  knew  it.  He  didn't  seem  to  be  the  right  one — too 
young — and  she  didn't  care,  and  now  I'm  not  sure  that  I 
was  right  in  preventing  it.  ..." 

"My  dear  Jaunty;  how  could  you  have  prevented  it? — 
Poor,  poor  boy." 

"There  are  ways,  many  ways,  of  preventing  things,  sir, 
without  saying  anything.  Dear,  dear,  I  would  give  all  I 
have  to  have  him  back." 

"We  would  all  give  that,  Jaunty — all  of  us.  Who  is  with 
Miss  Beech?  Miss  Mason?" 

"Far  better  than  that,  sir.     Miss  Mason's  brother." 


XVI 


DID  Sally  take  London  by  storm?  Of  course  not.  Only 
girls  in  novels  do  that,  or  girls  with  very  rich  papas  or 
very  clever  mammas.  Even  Panslea  knew  that.  Sally  had 
her  triumphs.  The  old  crossing-sweeper  at  the  corner  of 
the  square  had  seen  nothing  approaching  her,  and  a  man 
drawing  a  bath-chair  had  shaken  his  head  and  said,  "No 
work  for  me  there,"  which  was  a  tribute — less  sweeping 
perhaps  than  the  other,  but  a  tribute. 

Of  course  Panslea  expected  every  one  who  noticed  Sally 
to  say  she  was  the  loveliest  thing  they  had  ever  seen;  but 
they  were  wise  in  that  they  did  not  expect  every  one  to 
notice  her. 

Jaunty  did. 

Panslea  was  nearer  the  mark  than  he.  Those  people 
who  noticed  her  admired  her  immensely,  and  many  who 
looked  at  her  once  looked  again.  In  London,  of  course, 
she  wasn't  nearly  so  well  dressed  as  she  had  looked  to 
Jaunty  in  Panslea.  Pamela,  for  one,  laughed  at  her  cot- 
tons; but  Sally  wouldn't  have  others.  She  vowed  Arnold 
had  enough  to  do  in  buying  clothes  for  Pamela.  He  had 
married  Pamela,  not  her.  Arnold  knew  that,  but  he  wanted 
Sally  to  stay  with  them;  but  she  discovered  a  duty  to  her 
aunt.  Nothing  could  distract  her  from  it.  And  the  aunt 
found  her  a  delightful  companion.  It  was  like  having  a 
field  of  buttercups  and  daisies  to  stay  with  one  in  London 
— so  she  told  some  one,  and  the  some  one  she  told  it  to 
was  a  man,  and  he  understood.  For  he  saw  in  Sally 
everything  that  was  fresh  and  lovely,  and  pure  and  good, 
and  amusing  too.  And  the  tenderness  in  his  eyes  deepened 
as  her  aunt  talked  of  her,  and  she  talked  so  sympatheti- 
cally that  the  man  told  her  things  he  had  imagined  he 

166 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  167 

would  never  tell  any  one  but  his  mother.  Then  talking  of 
mothers  Mrs.  Lombard  told  him  about  Sally's  mother.  The 
thought  of  that  loss  touched  him  very  nearly.  He  knew 
what  a  precious  thing  a  mother  was.  Poor  little  Sally! 

Mrs.  Lombard  hastened  to  say  that  the  father  was  quite 
wonderful.  He  had  made  up  in  an  extraordinary  way  for 
what  the  children  had  lost.  Neil  Wentford  was  sure  he 
must  be  wonderful;  but  could  anything  make  up? 

Mrs.  Lombard  maintained,  "To  a  very  wonderful  ex- 
tent." 

Sally's  social  success  was  assured  when — in  answer  to 
an  invitation  from  friends  to  go  to  supper  at  the  Carlton — 
she  wrote  that  she  was  very  sorry  she  was  afraid  she  would 
be  too  late.  She  was  going  to  a  concert.  That  spread 
quickly,  and  socially  it  helped  her  enormously,  because  she 
was  pretty  enough  to  make  it  amusing.  And  it  amused 
her  aunt's  little  world,  and  all  worlds  like  to  be  amused — 
big  or  little. 

Sally  felt  as  if  she  were  country  butter  when  she  heard 
herself  described  as  fresh.  She  wrote  to  Jaunty  and  told 
him  she  had  heard  one  man,  in  the  Park,  say  to  another, 
"By  Jove,  what  a  clean-looking  girl !"  and  it  wasn't  enough 
for  Jaunty's  jealous  old  heart,  although  to  Sally,  new  to 
the  smuts  of  London,  it  seemed  a  tremendous  compliment. 
Jaunty  took  the  letter  to  Mr.  Lawrence,  and  Mr.  Law- 
rence laughed  at  him. 

"I  think,  sir,  if  you  will  allow  me,  I'll  go  up  for  the  day, 
and  I'll  sit  in  the  Park  and  see  for  myself  how  people  look, 
and  hear  perhaps  what  they  say.  Miss  Sally  tells  me  the 
hour  at  which  she  walks  in  the  Row.  ..." 

"By  all  means,  Jaunty.     By  all  means." 

But  before  Jaunty  had  arranged  a  day,  the  telegram 
for  Anne  came  and  Mr.  Lawrence  wrote  to  Sally. 

Sally  came  in  from  a  ball  and  found  the  letter  on  the 
hall  table.  She  saw  it  was  from  her  father  and  kissed  it. 
"You  ridiculous  child,"  said  her  aunt. 

"I'll  read  it  upstairs,  Aunt  V.;  I  shan't  thoroughly  en- 


168  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

joy  it  until  I  am  in  my  dressing-gown  with  my  hair  down. 
Good-night!  Life  is  one  glorious,  enormous,  delicious  joke 
— that's  what  Jimmy  Beech  calls  it.  You  darling!"  And 
she  kissed  her  aunt,  who  was  growing  softer  and  softer 
every  day,  consequently  much  happier;  and  Sally  ran  up- 
stairs, slipped  out  of  her  frock,  shook  down  her  hair,  and 
throwing  the  window  wide  to  the  morning,  opened  her 
father's  letter. 

"Mr  DARLING  CHILD,"  she  read, — "You  have  known  sorrow. 
Since  your  greatest  sorrow  you  have  known  happiness  again — 
it's  the  way  of  the  world,  otherwise  we  couldn't  go  on.  Great 
sorrow  has  come  to  Panslea.  How  great  it  will  be  to  you  your 
old  father,  of  course,  doesn't  know.  But  he  knows  your  tender 
heart  will  ache  for  others — for  your  dear,  beautiful  Anne— do 
you  guess,  Sally?  That  dear  boy  Jimmy  we  all  loved !  He  died 
in  India  of  fever;  he  was  your  playfellow,  wasn't  he?  So 
ridiculously  and  delightfully  young  for  his  age;  such  a  man  for 
his  years.  Of  course,  do  as  you  like  about  coming  home.  Mi- 
chael Mason  is  here.  He  is  often  with  Anne. — Your  devoted 
Father." 

Sally  read  the  letter  twice;  even  then  she  couldn't  be- 
lieve what  she  read.  Jimmy  dead,  and  she  had  said — a 
moment  ago — that  life  was  one  glorious,  delicious —  It 
was  his  joke,  just  as  the  world  had  been  his. 

She -heard  some  one  coming  up  the  stairs  hurriedly.  She 
knew  it  couldn't  be  Aunt  Venetia,  who,  though  stirred  by 
passion  or  terror,  could  hardly  rush  upstairs  like  a  hurri- 
cane. She  went  to  the  door,  barring  it  with  her  arms. 
"Let  me  in,  Sally — it's  me,"  and  Sally  opened  the  door  to 
Pamela. 

Pamela  had  come  straight  from  the  ball  as  Sally  had 
done;  but  she  had  heard  it  there.  "There  in  the  full  blaze 
of  lights,  Sally!"  she  cried,  "every  one  looking  at  me." 
She  flung  out  her  arms  with  a  despairing  gesture.  And 
Sally  thought,  What  would  Jimmy  have  said  if  he  had 
seen  her  like  this?  Dressed  in  flame-colour,  with  a  band 
of  diamonds  round  her  hair,  round  her  neck  a  rope  of 
pearls  ? 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  169 

And  yet  her  frock,  her  jewels,  were  as  nothing  compared 
to  the  beauty — the  tragic  beauty — of  her  face.  Sally  was 
astonished  who  knew  it  so  well — and  had  never  loved  it 
so  little. 

"Jimmy!"  gasped  Pamela.  "Sally,  why  do  you  stand 
like  that — as  if  nothing  had  happened?  Jimmy!" 

"I  know,"  said  Sally. 

"You  know,  and  you  can  stand  there  like  that?" 

"What  can  I  do?" — and  if  Pamela  had  had  ears  to  hear 
she  would  have  heard  the  desolation  expressed  in  those 
words.  Sally  began  to  plait  her  hair,  pulling  the  thick 
rope  over  her  shoulder. 

"Don't  do  that,  Sally.  What  am  I  to  do?  He  loved  me 
— and  I  loved  him."  She  paced  the  room  like  a  wild  thing, 
Sally's  immobility  stirring  her  to  fury. 

"Why  did  you  marry  Arnold,  then?"  asked  Sally. 

"Why?  Because — what  was  there  to  do?  What  was 
the  use  of  waiting?  Jimmy  was  poor — we  were  both  poor 
— but  he  was  alive  ..." 

"And  now  he  is  dead,"  whispered  Sally. 

"Don't !     Was  he  nothing  to  you  ?" 

"He  seemed  a  lot." 

"You  haven't  the  right  to  mourn  him  as  I  should  have 
had — as  I  have !  With  hair  that  colour  you  can  never 
decently  mourn  any  one !" 

"Have  you  the  right,  apart  from  your  hair,  Pamela?" 

"The  right  that  every  woman  has — who  loves !  O  Sally, 
pity  me !  If  it  was  you  it  would  be  all  right — every  one 
would  be  sorry  for  you;  but  what  am  I  to  say  to  Arnold?" 

"Ask  him  to  forgive  you !  I  think,  if  you  ask  me,  you've 
done  Arnold  a  far  greater  injury  in  marrying  him  than 
you  ever  did  Jimmy.  Did  Jimmy  tell  you  he  cared?  Be- 
fore he  went  away?  I  used  to  think  so — then  I  thought 
you  didn't  ..." 

Pamela  made  no  answer.  She  left  the  room  as  she  had 
entered  it — tempestuously  and  tragically — and  Sally  went 
on  plaiting  her  hair. 


170  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

She  would  have  gone  to  Panslea — but  she  hadn't  the 
right.  She  hadn't  imagined  it  necessary  to  have  a  particu- 
lar right  to  grieve  for  a  playfellow.  "You  haven't  the 
right/' — the  words  came  an  echo  from  India. 

Anne  waited  for  a  letter  from  Sally — waited  anxiously — 
eagerly.  When  it  came  it  was  a  stilted  little  letter.  It 
expressed  great  sorrow  for  Anne — but  it  didn't  say  the 
one  thing  Anne  wanted  to  hear;  and  yet  in  her  heart  of 
hearts  she  must  have  been  glad  that  Sally  was  spared 
what  she  was  suffering.  She  would  be  glad  some  day;  but 
just  at  first  it  was  the  love  of  every  one  she  wanted  for 
Jimmy.  Most  of  all  the  love  for  him  that  he  had  wanted. 
Poor  Anne  was  at  that  stage  of  her  grief  when  the  sun 
seemed  to  show  heartlessness  in  shining.  How  could  the 
sun  shine,  and  the  wind  play  in  the  leaves  of  the  trees, 
and  bend  the  flowers  to  its  wanton  will,  and  the  streams 
laugh  as  they  ran  to  the  river,  when  he  lay  still,  unmoved 
by  it  all,  who  had  loved  life  and  all  that  lived — so  dearly? 

Jimmy  had  lived  for  the  future,  and  the  future  to  him 
had  meant — Sally.  He  was  gone  and  Sally  didn't  care. 

Janet  Mason  had  constituted  herself  companion  to  Mr. 
Lawrence  during  Sally's  absence.  It  was  very  kind  of 
her,  and  no  one  thought  it  so  more  than  Mr.  Lawrence; 
but  there  were  times  when  he  sat  gazing  into  space,  hoping 
that  silence  might  drive  the  ministering  angel  from  his 
gates.  But  no;  Janet  knew  it  was  real  friendship  that 
made  it  possible  for  two  souls  akin  to  sit  in  silence;  so 
she  too  sat  gazing  into  space,  and  Mr.  Lawrence  was  sorry 
for  the  child,  and  in  the  kindness  of  his  heart  he  broke 
most  of  the  silences  and  Janet  at  once  became  her  brightest 
self. 

She  walked  with  him;  she  talked  with  him;  she  tea'd 
with  him,  and  he  began  to  long  more  than  ever  for  the 
return  of  Sally,  the  feel  of  her  arm  in  his,  for  their  walks 
together,  when  Sally  strode  to  suit  his  stride,  and  when 
they  both  laughed  over  the  delicious  absurdity  of  it  all. 
Most  absurd  were  the  plans  they  made  for  the  time  when 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  171 

they  should  both  be  old  and  live  together  with  their  dogs 
and  their  kittens,  and  their  flowers  and  their  books,  and 
Pamela's  grand-children — now  and  then ;  but  not  too  often. 
Children  try  old  people. 

"I  shall  be  so  old,  Sally,"  he  would  say. 

"No,  I  shall  catch  you  up — and  if  you  are  a  little  older 
than  I  am  and  should  grow  blind — too  blind  to  see — my 
eyes  shall  see  for  yours;  if  your  voice  grows  cracked  and 
you  can't  sing  in  church,  mine  shall  sing  for  you — my 
hands  shall  work  for  yours." 

"What  about  our  being  the  same  age?" 

It  was  ridiculous  all  this  fond  imagining,  and  when  Janet 
asked  him  if  he  were  thinking  of  Sally  he  had  to  say 
"Yes !" 

"What  about  her?"  she  would  say  a  little  jealously. 

"Oh,  nothing  in  particular."  For  what  of  all  that  ab- 
surdity could  he  tell  Janet — who  was  so  sensible,  and 
darned  stockings  so  neatly? 

Mr.  Lawrence  breathed  the  very  smallest  hint  to  Jaunty 
of  his  feelings  with  regard  to  Miss  Mason's  visits,  and 
from  that  moment  Jaunty,  seizing  what  to  many  people 
would  have  been  too  small  a  thing  to  be  called  by  even  so 
small  a  name  as  hint,  never  left  him  for  a  moment.  He 
brought  accounts  to  be  paid  which  in  other  circumstances 
might  have  waited.  Letters  to  answer  that  need  never 
have  been  answered.  There  was  no  limit  to  his  resource, 
and  Janet  finally  stayed  away  for  hours  at  a  time,  then 
days;  then  altogether. 

This  distressed  Mr.  Lawrence.  Jaunty  was  too  violent. 
The  poor  child  must  be  offended.  So  off  to  the  farm  he 
went,  and  he  found  Janet  alone,  darning,  with  a  very  large 
work-basket  before  her — forlorn  in  her  unauthorised  do- 
mesticity. 

Mr.  Lawrence  hadn't  been  there  five  minutes  when 
Jaunty  appeared.  A  gentleman  had  arrived  to  see  him. 
Would  he  come  at  once?  Whereupon  Mr.  Lawrence  told 
Janet  how  sorry  he  was,  that  the  visitor  couldn't  have  come 


172  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

at  a  more  inopportune  moment,  and  she  said,  "Never  mind ; 
I'll  come  down  to  tea  with  you,  shall  I?" 

"Do — do !"  he  begged,  and  off  he  went.  Long  as  his  legs 
were  they  couldn't  overtake  Jaunty  at  his  fastest  trot,  and 
as  Jaunty  disappeared  through  the  high  iron  gate,  Mr. 
Lawrence  had  just  come  round  the  corner.  Arrived  at  the 
house,  he  went  into  the  library:  no  one  there.  Into  the 
drawing-room:  no  one  there.  Into  the  garden.  "Jaunty!" 
he  called. 

"Sir?"  answered  Jaunty. 

"Where's  the  gentleman?" 

"Well,  sir,  it's  strange — but  he's  gone!  I  told  him  I 
shouldn't  be  a  minute." 

"What  was  he  like?" 

"Much  as  other  men." 

"It  wasn't  any  one  in  Panslea?  Not  the  vicar,  by 
chance?" 

"You  are  difficult  to  save,  sir,"  pleaded  Jaunty. 

That  evening  Jaunty  wrote  to  Sally.  "Miss  Sally,  I  am 
doing  my  best  to  take  care  of  your  father — but  there  are 
dangers  to  which  the  best  of  men  are  blind.  Why  don't 
you  come  home?  There's  some  one  up  the  road  who  is 
wondering  her  poor  broken  heart  out.  Didn't  you  care 
for  that  poor  young  gentleman?  In  any  case  I  can't  de- 
fend your  father  any  longer.  Your  obedient  Jaunty." 
Which  wasn't  a  wise  letter,  as  he  afterwards  learned  to  his 
cost. 

And  Sally  came  home  as  quickly  as  train  could  bring 
her,  and  that  was  too  slowly.  She  didn't  understand  in 
what  possible  danger  her  father  could  be,  but  Anne?  What 
did  Jaunty  mean? 

She  arrived  home  at  tea-time.  She  flung  her  arms  round 
her  father's  neck,  then  she  was  off  up  the  village  to  Anne's 
cottage. 

It  was  in  the  eyes  of  Panslea  a  fashionable  Miss  Sally 
who  passed  by  their  windows,  a  beautifully  and  wonder- 
fully dressed  Miss  Sally,  but  she  ran  every  bit  as  well  as 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  173 

she  had  run  when  she  went  away,  and  it  was  only  when 
she  came  in  view  of  Anne's  house  that  she  slowed  down. 
At  the  gate  she  stopped.  Had  she  the  right  to  go  in  now? 
Had  she  forfeited  the  right?  She  walked  up  the  little 
path,  and  turning  the  handle  of  the  door,  went  in.  Anne 
was  not  there.  Sally  passed  through  the  cottage  out  into 
the  garden  behind,  and  there  among  the  flowers  she  found 
her.  Sally  said  nothing,  and  Anne  said  nothing — till  Sally 
put  out  her  arms,  and  then  Anne  broke  down  within  their 
tender  encircling — hopelessly,  helplessly  broke  down.  "I 
didn't  know  I  had  the  right,  Anne,"  said  Sally. 

"Who  else,  Sally,  if  not  you?" 

"Why,  Pamela!" 

"Pamela  ?     Never !" 

"But  she  thinks  so." 

"Then  she  thinks  it  without  reason." 

Then  it  suddenly  came  upon  Sally — if  Pamela  hadn't 
the  right — must  she  accept  it?  Could  she  refuse  it?  "Tell 
me,  Anne,"  she  said. 

And  Anne  told  Sally  of  Jimmy's  letter  asking  her  to 
come  and  look  after  her,  of  all  his  letters  about  her.  Would 
Sally  like  to  see  them?  And  what  could  she  say  but 
"Yes"? 

Anne  fetched  a  packet  and  handed  her  a  letter  from  it. 
Sally  read:  "I  have  been  to  the  Lawrences.  She  was  out. 
I  waited  and  waited — at  last  she  came  in  dishevelled  and 
lovely;  she  had  been  to  gather  cherry  blossoms  to  send  to 
poor  old  Smithereens,  their  old  governess.  Pamela  said, 
'Tell  the  dear  old  thing  I  thought  of  it,'  and  I  said,  'But, 
hang  it  all,  Pamela,  you  didn't  get  up  at  six  to  pick  it.' 
This  is  only  to  show  you  how  unselfish  Sally  is.  She  fired 
up  at  once  and  said,  'It  was  the  thought,  of  course;  that 
was  the  thing  people  appreciated.'  " 

"Pamela  didn't  mean  it  in  that  way,"  said  Sally,  handing 
back  the  letter.  "I  remember  Jimmy  that  day — dear,  pep- 
pery old  thing.  Pamela  was  quite  right.  It  was  the 
thought  Smithereens  loved — the  blossom  lasted  no  time." 


174  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

Anne  said  she  was  sorry  she  had  shown  her  that  one. 
"Read  this."  Sally  read:  "She  looked  like  an  angel  from 
Heaven  to-day.  Her  father  sent  her  up  to  tidy.  I  longed 
to  ask  her  not  to,  she  looked  so  lovely,  with  her  hair  flying 
about,  her  cheeks  pink  as  roses  in  June.  Oh  dear,  Anne, 
what  it  is  to  be  a  man !" 

"I  never  remember  father  sending  me  up  to  tidy,"  said 
Sally — which  was  beside  the  point,  and  not  in  the  least 
what  she  meant  to  say. 

"His  letters  are  nothing,"  said  Anne  apologetically; 
"they  were  only  to  me,  but  they  were  full  of  you — always 
you.  I  thought  you  would  like  ..." 

Anne  looked  at  Sally,  and  Sally  saw  in  her  hands,  as  it 
were,  a  cloak  of  sorrow.  She  was  holding  it  out  for  Sally 
to  slip  into.  Sally  had  loved  Jimmy,  of  course,  but  not 
like  this.  But  she  couldn't  say  so  now — least  of  all  to 
Anne.  If  Jimmy  had  lavished  all  this  upon  her,  could  she 
refuse  to  accept  it?  At  last  Anne  said,  "You  did  care?" 
And  Sally  answered,  "I  did  care,  I  did — I  only  ..." 
and  she  felt  the  weight  of  the  cloak  on  her  shoulders  and 
she  wrapped  the  folds  round  her. 

"Did  you  give  him  any  hope  in  the  letter  you  wrote? 
but,  of  course,  it  never  reached  him.  Would  you  like  it 
back  when  it  comes?" 

Sally  said  she  would.  She  was  thankful  it  had  never 
reached  him. 

"Did  you  ever  give  him  any  hope  ?"  persisted  Anne. 
Sally  searched  her  honest  heart.     Yes,  she  thought  she 
had — she  had !    Yes,  she  said  she  would  wait  for  him ;  yes, 
she  did!  (and  so  she  had — in  fun). 

"O  Sally,  Sally,  it  makes  all  the  difference!  If  only  I 
knew  Jimmy  was  happy  and  knew  you  were  his,  it  would 
make  all  the  difference.  He  did  know?  Say  it  again, 
Sally,"  she  pleaded. 

Poor  Sally!  It  was  so  easy  to  say,  so  difficult  not  to 
say. 

"Yes,  I   am  sure  he  knew."     The  words   came  easily 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  175 

enough,  but  she  was  appalled  that  words  that  meant  so 
little  could  have  such  an  effect.  Anne  rose  from  her  grief 
looking  as  though  she  had  seen  a  vision.  There  was  hope, 
love,  everything  that  triumphed  written  on  her  face.  It 
was  transfigured.  "I  can  bear  everything  now,"  she  said, 
and  Sally  went  back  to  her  father — not  running,  as  she 
had  come,  but  walking  with  the  cloak  of  sorrow  trailing 
behind  her — it  was  too  big  everywhere.  It  had  not  been  cut 
to  her  measure. 

Panslea  looking  out  from  its  windows  saw  the  child  had 
grown  up  since  she  had  been  away,  and  how  grandly  she 
walked,  just  her  mother  all  over  again.  "But  sadder," 
said  one  woman,  and  another  exclaimed,  "Miss  Sally  sad 


-never 


"Well,  look,"  said  the  first  woman,  jerking  the  curtain 
back  closer  to  the  wall.  And  the  second  woman  looked 
out  over  the  pots  of  geraniums  that  crowded  the  window- 
sill,  and  said,  "Well,  maybe  she  would  be  sad  after  seeing 
Miss  Anne." 

"You  found  dear  Anne?"  said  Mr.  Lawrence,  and  Sally 
nodded. 

"Were  you  able  to  comfort  her  at  all?" 

Sally  said  she  thought  she  had  been  able. 

"Poor  dear  Anne;  I  hope  she  will  marry  Michael  Ma- 
son. Sally,  had  you  any  idea — that  Jimmy  .  .  .  ?" 

"No — no,  no." 

"Forgive  me,  my  child — I  don't  wish  to  force  your  con- 
fidence— I  am  thankful  you  didn't  care  for  the  dear  boy 
more  than  we  all  did — we  all  loved  him." 

"Not  as  I  did,"  said  Sally  passionately. 

Her  father  looked  up  astonished.  There  was  passion 
in  her  voice,  passion  in  her  eyes;  she  breathed  quickly,  she 
was  distressed. 

"My  child,  my  child,"  he  cried.     "Not  that !" 

"Leave  me — it's  true,  it's  true.  I  loved  him — I  had 
promised  to  wait.  Jimmy  knew  it,  and  it  makes  all  the  dif- 
ference to  Anne." 


176  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

She  was  gone,  leaving  her  father  bewildered.  He  went 
to  Jaunty. 

"Jaunty,  we  were  mistaken — it  is  serious  with  the  child." 

"Miss  Sally?" 

"Yes;  she  says  she — cared." 

"Since  when?" 

"She  didn't  say." 

"It's  since  she  went  to  see  Miss  Anne,  to-day — that's  it, 
sir." 

"Jaunty,  what  do  you  mean?" 

Jaunty  said  he  meant  what  he  said.  "This  sorrow 
mustn't  be  forced  upon  her."  And  the  wise  old  man  went 
upstairs  and,  listening  outside  Sally's  door,  heard  the  tear- 
ing sound  of  the  child's  sobs,  and  they  tore  his  heart  with 
their  violence. 

"It's  late  to  cry,"  he  thought.  "She's  doing  it  for  her 
sake — Miss  Anne's  sake.  It  mustn't  be."  He  knocked  at 
the  door. 

"Who's  there?" 

"It's  me,  miss — your  ridiculous  Jaunty." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Will  you  come  into  the  garden,  miss,  and  talk  to  me — 
where  we  have  so  often  talked?"  and  she  followed  Jaunty 
downstairs  and  out  into  the  garden,  to  the  place  where 
she  had  stood  as  a  child  and  told  him  that  the  world  was  a 
happy  place  after  all.  It  had  to  be  happy  again — Jaunty 
was  determined  on  that. 

"Now,  miss,"  he  said,  "this  won't  do.  You  will  have 
sorrow  enough  in  life  of  your  own — you  mustn't  take  more 
upon  your  shoulders  than  God  lays  upon  them — we  all  have 
our  burdens.  Mr.  Jimmy  wasn't  all  this  to  you.  You 
loved  him  as  your  father  loved  him — as  his  sister  (a  little 
less,  of  course)  loved  him.  There  wasn't  a  soul  in  the 
village  he  spoke  one  word  to,  who  didn't  remember  that 
word.  He  had  a  way  with  him.  I'm  told  his  men  felt  for 
him  almost  an  adoration.  He  was  the  best  kind  of  officer 
England  has,  and  he  died  for  bis  country;  if  not  on  active 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  177 

service,  in  doing  his  duty.  He  was  all  this;  but,  Miss 
Sally,  he  wasn't  more  to  you  than  he  was  to  most  who 
knew  him.  You  mustn't  think  you  can  blind  me  to  that. 
If  you  have  told  Miss  Beech  so  to  make  the  wound  hurt 
less  you  have  made  a  fresh  wound,  because  she  loves  you 
so  well  that  when  she  gets  better  she  will  feel  the  wound 
of  your  sorrow  for  many  a  long  day — and  who  wouldn't 
be  wounded  to  think  of  a  young  thing  on  the  brink  of  life, 
as  it  were,  hurt  to  death.  Miss  Sally,  you  cared  for  Mr. 
Jimmy  as  we  all  cared  .  .  . " 

"No,  Jaunty — a  thousand  times  no.  As  he  cared.  And 
he  knew  it.  Go,  go! — and  I  danced  in  London  while  he 
lay —  It  was  you  who  wrote.  Go!" 

And  Jaunty  went,  and  he  wrote  to  Mrs.  Lombard: 

"MADAM, — Have  you  any  reason  to  suppose  Miss  Sally  was 
broken-hearted  at  the  news  from  India?  That  she  cared  more 
than  every  one  must  care  who  knew  Mr.  Beech?  Will  you  be 
so  good  as  to  tell  me  how  she  took  the  news  when  you  broke  it 
to  her? — Yours  obediently, 

"JAUNTY." 

To  which  letter  Mrs.  Lombard  wrote  in  answer: 

"To  JAUNTY, — I  do  not  understand  your  letter.  I  did  not 
break  the  news  to  Miss  Sara.  Her  father's  letter  did  that,  and 
quite  kindly,  I  imagine.  Miss  Sara  ate  very  little  breakfast 
the  next  morning  and  she  had  been  crying.  She  spent  most  of 
the  morning  at  the  telephone  saying  she  couldn't  do  all  the 
things  she  had  promised  to  do.  She  went  to  the  four  o'clock 
service  at  St.  Paul's  in  the  afternoon,  and  didn't  go  to  a  dance 
that  night.  The  next  day  she  read  General  Gordon's  Life.  Her 
eyes  looked  less  red.  She  went  with  me  to  the  Park  and  went 
early  to  bed. 

"The  next  day,  the  third  day  from  the  day  she  received  her 
father's  letter,  she  came  down  to  breakfast — made  a  good  break- 
fast— read  Rudyard  Kipling's  "William  the  Conqueror"  and 
"The  Brushwood  Boy" — the  choice  significant — went  to  the 
Park  in  the  morning,  Ranelagh  in  the  afternoon.  She  wasn't 
in  her  best  spirits  and  wouldn't  watch  the  Polo. — Yours  faith- 
fully, V.  LOMBARD." 


178  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

"I'm  right,  then,"  said  Jaunty  when  he  had  read  the 
letter. 

But  Sally  walked  from  her  own  house  to  Anne's  cottage 
and  back  again  several  times  a  day,  and  her  eyes  grew 
larger  and  her  face  smaller,  and  Jaunty  watched  in  despair. 

Miss  Eleanor  Doe  worked  day  and  night  at  a  miniature 
of  Jimmy,  but  she  cried  so  much  that  she  couldn't  see 
what  she  painted.  Perhaps  that  was  why  the  miniature 
bore  so  little  resemblance  to  him.  Anyhow  when  it  should 
be  finished  Miss  Eleanor  was  determined  that  Sally  should 
wear  it  on  a  black  watered  ribbon  round  her  neck.  Poor 
Sally!  There  was  no  escaping  her  sorrow;  it  encompassed 
her  round  about  on  every  side.  It  was  to  hang  round  her 
neck  all  the  days  of  her  life. 

Pamela  heard  of  it  and  came  down  to  Panslea.  When 
she  saw  Sally  what  she  had  meant  to  say  died  on  her  lips. 
"Who  said  it  was  you?"  she  asked,  awed. 

"Anne,"  whispered  Sally. 

"And  why  didn't  you  know  you  cared  at  first?" 

Sally  begged  Pamela  not  to  ask.  "I  don't  know — I  was 
too  young  to  know,  perhaps." 

"I  thought  I  did  and  found  I  didn't;  and  you  thought 
you  didn't  and  found  you  did?  It's  a  funny  world,  Sally. 
It  has  saved  me  a  lot  of  bother  with  Arnold." 

"I  don't  think  marriage  has  improved  you,  Pamela." 

"Improved  me?"  said  Pamela,  laughing;  "how  could 
marriage  improve  any  one?  It's  impossible.  From  morn- 
ing to  night,  it's  all  me.  I  am  the  centre  of  the  entire 
household.  Arnold  waits  for  me  to  express  a  wish  for 
something,  and — I  have  it.  I  go  out,  every  one  makes  a 
point  of  petting  me  and  admiring  me.  Of  course,  I'm  not 
improved.  I'm  frightfully  spoilt — a  dustman  took  off  his 
hat  to  me  and  cheered  me  one  day  as  he  passed  in  his  cart. 
Isn't  that  enough  to  spoil  any  young  woman?  I  go  out 
to  dinner,  I  make  the  most  utterly  foolish  remark,  and  the 
man  next  me  laughs  immoderately — it's  not  what  I  say, 
it's  because  I  say  it.  There's  a  conspiracy  abroad  in  the 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  179 

land  to  spoil  me.  How  can  I  be  improved?  I  shall  never 
be  to  any  one  what  you  will  be  to  your  husbarid,  Sally.  I 
shall  always  be  a  hindrance  to  Arnold;  but  you — you  will 
go  to  India  and  have  crowds  of  children  and  keep  your 
complexion — you  are  just  the  kind  of  aggravating  creature 
to  do  it.  You'll  be  such  a  help  to  your  husband.  He'll 
consult  you  about  everything — great  big  bridges  and  huge 
dams.  You'll  be  so  wise  with  those  great  eyes  of  yours, 
and  your  sons  will  look  up  to  you  and  speak  of  their 
mother  with  bated  breath — and  their  unfortunate  wives 
will  be  up  against  an  impossible  ideal  all  the  days  of  their 
lives.  You'll  live  to  be  ninety  without  wearing  spectacles, 
and  you'll  read  as  you  drive  in  London,  on  a  placard  across 
the  street,  the  news  of  the  death  of  your  favourite  grand- 
son— a  field-marshal  in  India — and  you'll  say  to  the  foot- 
man, 'Home,'  and  when  you  get  there  they  will  find  the 
brave  spirit  has  joined  the  grandson  she  loved  on  the 
farthest  away  of  all  frontiers.  O  Sally  dear,  life's  a  great 
joke  after  all,  and  the  greatest  joke  in  it  is  Arnold.  He 
is  so  serious,  dear  old  thing.  I  feel  inclined  to  keep  him 
for  Sundays — do  you  remember  the  kind  of  toy  we  kept 
for  Sundays? — Well,  'that's  what  I  feel  about  Arnold. 
But,  seriously,  Sally,  you  won't  let  this — sorrow  spoil  your 
looks,  will  you  ?"  and  to  her  horror  Sally  began  to  laugh — 
and  she  laughed  and  laughed  till  she  cried  and  cried. 

Pamela  was  frightened,  and  she  went  to  talk  prettily  to 
her  father.  He  wanted  to  talk  about  Sally;  but  Pamela 
wanted  to  talk  about  herself. 

"Dear  old  Daddy  Long  Legs,  I  did  worry  you,  didn't  I  ? 
Well,  Arnold  and  I  get  on  much  better  now.  I  like  him 
very  much — very  much  indeed." 

"I'm  glad,  I'm  glad,"  said  her  father.  "I  wish  I  were 
as  happy  about  Sally." 

"Sally  will  get  over  it.  You  can't  expect  her  to,  all  in  a 
moment.  She  is  so  romantic — always  was.  I  think  you 
should  send  her  away  for  a  while.  She  was  immensely  ad- 


180  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

mired  in  London.  I  am  very  disappointed;  there  was  a 
delightful  man  who  seemed  so  devoted  ..." 

"Not  that,  not  that,  Pamela — at  such  a  time/'  and 
Pamela  shrugged  her  shoulders.  If  they  would  insist  on 
saddling  Sally  with  a  love  trouble,  they  must  do  it.  But 
she  had  seen  Sally  on  the  night  they  had  heard  the  news 
of  Jimmy's  death.  She  was  not  broken-hearted  then — only 
horrified  and  distressed. 

So  back  to  London  went  Pamela,  and  Sally  stayed  in 
Panslea  with  her  sorrow,  and  there  were  moments  when 
she  began  to  think  it  must  always  have  been  like  this.  She 
must  always  have  been  unhappy  without  Jimmy. 

She  couldn't  feel  like  this  entirely  to  please  Anne — nor 
to  worry  Jaunty. 


XVII 

EVERY  one  was  so  terribly  kind  to  Sally.     She  could  have 
borne  anything  better.     Miss  Eleanor  Doe  wrote  to  her: 

"Mr  CHILD, — There  is  shade  and  quiet  in  our  garden.  The 
scent  of  the  heliotrope  is  delicious — or  would  it  add  summer 
memories,  the  saddest  of  all  memories  because  the  sweetest,  to 
your  sorrow?  There  is  a  dear  little  wren  that  runs,  like  a 
mouse,  in  the  creeper  over  the  house.  These  gentle  distractions 
are  ours,  and  shall  be  yours.  Above  all,  you  shall  find  perfect 
quietness  and  no  questions.  If  it  would  help  you  I  have  a 
little  story  that  I  have  told  to  no  one.  I  could  tell  it  to  you. 
That  shall  be  as  you  wish.  I  want,  dear  child,  when  you  feel 
able  to  bear  the  strain,  to  consult  you  about  the  dear  left  eye- 
brow. If  it  pains  you  too  much  we  will  leave  it  as  it  is.  It 
seems  to  be  questioning.  I  may  have  it  a  little  too  high. — 
Yours  in  deep  sympathy,  E.  DOE." 

Lord  Bridlington  was  one  of  the  first  to  notice  the  change 
in  Sally.  He  called  his  wife's  attention  to  it;  but  she  said 
it  was  dancing.  She  knew  a  girl  who  had  lost  two  stone 
in  her  first  season. 

But  Bridlington  wouldn't  hear  of  that.  Sally  hadn't 
been  fat  to  start  with.  She  had  danced  all  her  life.  She 
had  run  like  a  deer,  had  jumped  like  a  gazelle.  There  was 
something  more  than  dancing  to  account  for  her  thinness. 
Lady  Bridlington  could  only  suggest  a  love  trouble.  An 
unrequited  love?  Bridlington  was  furious  at  the  very 
idea.  Unrequited  love?  Show  him  the  man  who  wouldn't 
return  Sally's  love  a  thousand-fold !  Lady  Bridlington 
laughed.  "You  are  very  ridiculous  about  that  child,"  she 
said. 

The  result  of  all  this  was  that  one  fine  morning  Lord 
Bridlington  started  to  call  upon  those  of  his  tenants  to 
whom  he  felt  he  owed  the  civility  of  a  call,  forgetting  that 

181 


182  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

no  landlord  owes  it  to  any  tenant  before  three  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon. 

The  first  person  he  met  was  Janet  Mason.  She  was  not 
a  tenant,  neither  did  she  lodge  with  a  tenant  of  his,  but 
she  was  as  likely  as  any  one  to  know  why  Sally  was  thin. 
So  he  stopped  her  and  from  one  thing  to  another  he  got 
on  to  Sally.  Had  she  enjoyed  herself  in  London?" 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Janet,  "until  ..." 

"Until  what?" 

"Oh,  don't  you  know?" 

"I  know  what  is  said — but  I  wasn't  sure  of  the  truth; 
from  you  I  should  know  .  .  ." 

"Well,  of  course,  I  do  know  it's  true;  but  I  didn't  know 
she  was  really  engaged  to  him." 

"Dear,  dear — engaged !    It's  too  bad." 

"Yes,  isn't  it?  And  for  poor  Anne,  too.  She  was  so 
devoted  to  him;  but,  of  course,  it's  worse  for  Sally;  al- 
though I  sometimes  think  it's  worst  for  a  sister  who  has 
known  him  all  her  life." 

"Of  course,  of  course.  Poor  dear  Jimmy!  Good-morn- 
ing, Miss  Mason,"  and  on  he  sped,  unconvinced,  but  very 
unhappy.  Not  Jimmy  Beech !  He  must  have  known  of  it 
had  it  been  Jimmy! 

The  next  person  he  met  was  Anne  Beech,  and  in  defer- 
ence to  her  black  frock  and  the  delicacy  of  the  situation  he 
raised  his  hat  and  passed  on.  Then  he  came  to  a  patch  of 
red,  blue,  and  white  confetti  scattered  on  the  road.  To  a 
stranger  passing  that  way  the  confetti  must  have  sug- 
gested a  wedding.  Not  so  to  Bridlington.  He  knew  it 
meant  that  Miss  Eleanor  had  passed  that  way,  and  he 
knew  she  must  return  that  way.  It  was  to  make  it  a 
certainty  that  she  had  scattered  the  confetti.  If  she  ven- 
tured, on  her  constitutional,  farther  than  the  actual  village, 
she  always  scattered  it  at  those  corners  where,  on  her  re- 
turn journey,  she  would  be  bound  to  make  a  decision.  She 
had  so  much  in  life,  but  lamentably  lacked  a  sense  of  lo- 
cality. 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  188 

Lord  Bridlington  waited  a  few  minutes  and  Miss  Eleanor 
came  along. 

"Good-morning,"  said  he. 

"Good-morning,"  said  she. 

"Not  painting,  this  beautiful  morning?"  He  quickly 
outlined  a  baby  with  the  point  of  his  stick  on  the  soft 
sandy  road. 

"Not  this  morning.     I  am  giving  my  eyes  a  rest." 

"Are  you  so  busy,  then?" 

"Yes;  and  when  I  am  busy  it  means  others  are  sorrow- 
ing. I  would  be  less  busy  at  this  moment." 

"You  are  painting  the  miniature  of  ...  ?"  he  lowered 
his  voice. 

"Yes,  of  dear  Mr.  Beech — in  uniform." 

"For  the  one  he  loved?  You  are  privileged,  Miss  El- 
eanor." 

"I  am  indeed." 

"She  was  engaged  to  him?" 

"Yes,  so  it  seems ;  but  no  one  knew." 

"Her  father,  I  suppose  .   .   .  ?" 

"I  believe  not — at  least,  Mr.  Lawrence  told  me  it  had 
come  to  him  as  a  great  shock.  Sally  seems  so  young  to 
have  been  engaged." 

"I  wonder  if  she  really  was?"  questioned  Lord  Bridling- 
ton, smoothing  out  the  baby  with  his  foot. 

"Secretly,  of  course,  and  have  you  not  seen  her?" 

Yes,  he  had  seen  her,  and  he  had  learned  all  he  wished 
to  know — that  he  hated  to  know.  What  business  had  Sally 
to  be  sad  and  in  trouble  when  there  was  nothing  Panslea 
wasn't  prepared  to  do  in  order  to  shield  her  from  all 
sorrow  ?  For  what  other  reason  had  they  watched  her  from 
childhood?  But  if  the  child  was  in  sorrow,  all  honour 
should  be  paid  to  the  one  she  had  loved  and  mourned. 

He  turned  in  at  the  Vicarage.  The  Vicar  was  at  home. 
Lord  Bridlington  was  shown  into  the  study,  where  the 
Vicar  was  preparing  his  sermon  for  the  next  Sunday. 
Lord  Bridlington  apologised,  but  begged  him  to  give  them 


184  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

the  sermon  he  had  given  them  two  Sundays  back.  It  was 
excellent  and  he  wanted  his  second  coachman  to  hear  it, 
who  hadn't  been  in  church  that  morning. 

"Send  him  to  hear  this  one  instead,"  said  the  Vicar;  "it 
will  do  just  as  well — will  do  him  just  as  much  good." 

"Ah,  but  you  are  not  in  a  position  to  know  how  well. 
.  .  .  However,  there's  something  in  all  sermons  for  some 
one,"  said  Lord  Bridlington,  and  the  Vicar  agreed.  This 
one  might  prove  the  very  thing  the  second  coachman  most 
needed — or  the  fourth  footman  even! 

"Now,  seriously,"  said  Lord  Bridlington,  "I  have  come 
to  talk — or  rather  I  have  come  about  this  memorial." 

The  Vicar  asked,  What  memorial?  He  had  heard  of 
none — other  than  those  raised  in  the  hearts  of  all  feeling 
men  and  women.  This  kind  of  sentiment  bored  Bridling- 
ton, and  he  hastened  to  say  there  had  been  nothing  to  hear, 
until  this  very  minute.  "Miss  Eleanor  Doe  is  painting 
his  miniature — Jimmy  Beech's.  It's  not  enough.  It  may 
not  even  be  recognisable — bound  not  to  be — but  a  suitable 
memorial — in  the  church,  I  suggest."  He  paused  to  give 
weight  to  his  words.  The  Vicar  was  visibly  moved  by 
them.  "Now,  what  do  you  say?"  went  on  Bridlington;  "A 
screen,  a  window — or  what?  Think  it  over.  I  will  get  the 
best  man  to  do  it — no  money  shall  be  spared — and  Sally 
shall  unveil  it." 

"Why  Sally?"  questioned  the  Vicar,  shaking  his  foun- 
tain pen. 

"Because  they  were  engaged — secretly.  I  have  it  on  the 
best  authority." 

"Are  you  sure  of  it  ?  Your  authority,  I  mean  ?"  he  asked, 
trying  his  pen  on  the  blotter. 

"Yes,  quite." 

"And  her  father,  he  knew  of  it?"  he  said,  unscrewing 
the  end  of  his  pen. 

"It  was  secret — secret." 

"And  it  is  a  secret  no  longer?"  He  laid  the  pen  down 
and  wiped  his  inky  finger  on  the  blotting  paper. 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  185 

"No,  of  course  not.  7  know.  Now,  my  dear  Masters, 
there  is  no  question  of  feelings.  We  ought  to  have  seen 
for  ourselves.  Look  at  her  eyes.  Did  you  see  them  fixed 
upon  you  during  your  sermon  last  Sunday?  No  child 
unless  she  had  been  secretly  engaged  should  listen  to  a 
sermon  as  she  was  listening  to  yours — I  mean  unless  the 
young  man  had  died.  Her  interest  at  her  age  was  unnat- 
ural. She  should  be  thinking  of  other  things.  Excellent 
as  your  sermons  are,  they  should  not  appeal  to  happy 
young  things — you  can't  mean  them  to.  We,  in  Panslea, 
feel  particularly  responsible  for  the  happiness  of  those 
children — I  don't  mean  you  aren't  to  preach  to  the  drunk- 
ards of  Panslea — you  must,  of  course;  but  you  mustn't 
expect  Sally  to  take  it  to  heart,  and  last  Sunday  she  did. 
Therefore,  my  dear  Masters,  you  had  every  chance  of 
learning  for  yourself  what  you  are  now  pained  at  hearing 
from  me." 

"It's  only  this,"  said  the  Vicar,  "the  happiness  of  those 
children !  Who  should  foster  it  more  carefully  than  I  ?  I 
have  prayed  for  them  night  and  day — I  knew  nothing  of 
this  engagement — why,  she  was  a  child  when  Beech  went 
away."  He  rested  his  elbows  on  the  arms  of  his  chair,  and 
putting  his  finger-tips  together,  held  them  so,  and  repeated, 
"A  child." 

"How  old  were  you,  Masters,  when  the  first  pangs  of 
love  assailed  you?" 

The  Vicar  grew  red.  Bridlington  had  a  way  of  saying 
things  that  was  particularly  disconcerting. 

"Out  with  it,  Masters;  thirteen,  fourteen — fifteen?" 

The  Vicar  smiled.  "Somewhere  about  that  age,  no 
doubt.  But  the  object  of  my  affections  was  always  twice 
my  age."  He  dropped  his  fingers  one  by  one  until  his 
hands  were  folded  in  a  position  familiar  to  his  parishion- 
ers. "Quite  twice,"  he  repeated. 

"That  makes  no  difference.  The  power  to  love— or 
fancy  yourself  in  love — was  yours  at  an  early  age;  why 
deny  it  to  Sally?"  persisted  Bridlington,  who  had  been 


186  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

ready  enough  to  deny  it  himself,  but  the  memorial  had 
him  fast;  and  the  Vicar,  in  the  interests  of  the  church  he 
loved,  began  to  think  in  memorials — and  as  he  thought  he 
smiled. 

A  window?  a  screen? — Why  not  both?  Bridlington  was 
so  rich,  and  young  Beech  had  been  undoubtedly  possessed 
of  very  considerable  charm.  They  would  be  fitting  me- 
morials to  the  integrity  of  his  character.  But  what  had 
Sally  seen  in  him,  and  why  at  her  age  should  she  have 
fallen  in  love? 

Who  had  spoken  to  her  of  love?  She  had  been  so  care- 
fully guarded,  so  shielded.  She  had  seen  nothing  of  lovers. 
Both  he  and  Mrs.  Masters  were  so  careful,  in  their  manner 
one  to  the  other — so  careful  to  set  the  young  people  in 
the  village  an  example — to  show  them  what  a  true  affec- 
tion could  be — strong  without  demonstration,  deep  without 
demoralisation. 

Lord  Bridlington  asked  the  Vicar  what  he  was  thinking 
about  so  seriously,  and  the  Vicar  said  he  was  wondering 
what  had  made  Sally  think  of  love,  living  as  she  had  lived, 
so  sheltered. 

"You  talk  as  if  love  were  a  sin,  Masters.  Why,  I've  seen 
it  dozens  of  times  in  this  village — in  the  eyes  of  old  Fur- 
longer  when  his  grandchild  runs  out  to  meet  him." 

Mr.  Masters  raised  a  hand  in  gentle  protest.  "Ah,  a 
love  like  that — that's  different." 

"But,  my  dear  Masters,  Sally  can't  love  a  grandchild 
till  she  loves  its  grandfather — and  you  would  be  the  last  to 
wish  it.  Sally  a  grandmother,  the  absurdity  of  it!"  the 
tender  absurdity  of  it! 

"You  are  looking  far  ahead,"  said  Mr.  Masters,  smiling 
at  the  thought,  which  he  too  found  absurd.  "We  are  now 
discussing  the  memorial  to  Sally's  lover;  he  can  never  be 
a  grandfather — that  you  will  admit,  so  it  seems  hardly 
decent  to  talk  of  Sally  as  a  grandmother." 
•  Lord  Bridlington  swore  she  would  make  a  delightful 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  187 

one.  He  liked  to  think  of  her  as  one,  until  he  realised 
that  he  would  not  be  there  to  applaud  her. 

"Very  well,  Masters/'  he  said,  "the  matter  is  settled  so 
far  as  the  memorial  goes.  Sally's  grandchild  we  must 
leave  to  time.  You  agree  to  have  something  of  the  sort — 
the  best  of  its  kind.  Window  or  screen?  If  window,  I 
would  suggest  a  young  man  in  the  armour  of  righteousness 
— holding  the  shield  of  faith.  It  could  be  done  with 
Jimmy's  face,  eh?" 

"If  not  too  painful  a  reminder  to  Sally,"  said  the  Vicar. 

"Oh,  it's  not  likely  to  be  so  like  as  all  that;  they  never 
are.  Personally  I  don't  for  one  moment  believe  Vandyck 
satisfied  the  friends  and  relations  of  his  sitters.  We  judge 
his  pictures  now  as  pictures,  not  as  portraits;"  and  he 
went  his  way  having,  he  imagined,  impressed  Masters 
with  his  knowledge  of  the  Old  Masters. 

When  he  confided  his  scheme  to  his  wife  she  said  she 
thought  the  memorial  would  be  very  little  help  to  Sally, 
and  would  only  encourage  Mr.  Masters  in  church  practices. 
Her  idea  would  be  to  make  Sally  happier,  not  the  Vicar, 
who  was  thinking  of  turning  old  Summers  out  of  the  choir. 

"Why?"  asked  Lord  Bridlington,  looking  very  grave. 
These  were  serious  things  in  village  life. 

"Because  he  sings  out  of  tune!" 

"Well,  well !    There  might  be  worse  reasons." 

"Well,  my  dear  Thomas,  who  is  it  Summers  worships 
in  church?  His  God  or  his  Vicar?" 

"My  dear,  my  dear,  you  must  remember  the  title.  You 
forced  it  upon  me.  You  must  live  up  to  it." 

"And  give  up  my  God?" 

"If  called  upon  to  do  so — in  church  matters." 

"Thomas,  you  are  teasing  me." 

And  Thomas  didn't  deny  it. 

Lady  Bridlington  said  she  would  suggest  taking  Sally 
away — right  away,  for  a  time. 

"A  yacht,  you  mean?" 


188  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

She  had  not  meant  anything  of  the  kind,  knowing  her 
husband  to  be  a  bad  sailor. 

"You  are  a  bad  sailor,  my  dear/'  she  reminded  him, 
without  malice. 

"And  what  if  I  am.  We  have  to  consider  these  children 
— our  position  ..." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  said  Lady  Bridlington.  She  realised 
her  many  positions. 

"It's  an  excellent  idea,  my  dear;  we'll  charter  a  five- 
hundred-ton  steam  yacht,  and  take  Jack  and  all — anybody 
who  likes  to  come.  If  we  hug  the  islands  of  Scotland  I 
can't  very  well  be  ill,  can  I  ?  Yes,  we'll  do  that.  There's 
nothing  in  the  sea  to  remind  Sally  of  Jimmy — he  was  a 
soldier,  not  a  sailor." 

"He  went  to  India  by  sea  ..." 

"Oh,  Sally's  far  too  sensible  to  think  of  that — she  knows 
he  couldn't  go  any  other  way.  I  think  I'll  write  to  Mas- 
ters; a  mural  tablet  would  do  to  remind  Sally,  and  I  will 
spend  the  larger  sum  in  helping  her  to  forget." 

But  the  stained-glass  window  had  entered  the  very  soul 
of  the  Vicar.  It  coloured  his  whole  existence.  He  trod  on 
air  as  he  walked  down  the  village.  He  looked  in  imagina- 
tion at  his  congregation  through  the  wonderful  carvings 
of  an  oak  screen.  No  money  was  to  be  spared.  For  this 
he  had  lived.  For  this  he  had  waited.  Then  it  struck  him 
as  strange  that  his  heart's  desire  should  come  to  him 
through  the  breaking  of  Sally's  heart. 

As  he  thought  this  he  saw  her  coming  towards  him.  He 
judged  her  step  lighter  than  it  had  been — her  face  brighter. 
But  when  she  saw  him  she  seemed  to  slacken  her  pace  and 
set  her  face  into  lines  of  sorrow. 

"Sally,  my  child,"  he  said,  and  he  put  his  arm  through 
hers.  She  smiled.  "I  never  knew — till  now,"  he  said. 

He  felt  her  arm  stiffen  within  his;  felt  it  gently  with- 
drawn. He  released  it.  "You  always  have  seemed  to  us 
such  a  child." 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  189 

Sally  made  no  reply;  she  walked,  looking  on  the  ground. 
She  made  it  difficult  for  the  poor  Vicar. 

"Lord  Bridlington,"  he  said,  "has  been  telling  me — con- 
sulting me,  rather — about  the  memorial." 

"The  memorial?"  she  whispered,  "what  memorial?" 

"The  memorial  to  the  one  you  loved — 'and  lost  awhile.' 
It  is  as  much  for  your  sake  as  for  his  that  we  want  it  to  be 
as  beautiful  as  possible.  Lord  Bridlington  suggested  a 
window — he  thought  that  a  young  man  panoplied  in  the 
armour  of  righteousness,  with  his  foot  .  .  .'.' 

"What  young  man?"  asked  Sally. 

"Jimmy  Beech,  my  dear  child — who  other  than  he?  Or, 
if  that  would  remind  you  too  poignantly,  we  will  have  an- 
other window — and  a  screen  to  him,  exquisitely  and  won- 
derfully carved.  ..." 

"Wait !"  cried  Sally,  "why  do  you  tell  me  this  ?" 

"My  child — who  else  should  I  tell?  When  it  is  for  you 
it  is  done;  from  the  great  love  we  all  bear  you — to  express 
to  you  our  deep  sympathy  to  you  and  Miss  Anne.  ..." 

"To  Anne,  yes ;  not  to  me.    No,  no,  no !" 

The  Vicar  looked  at  her  in  amazement;  he  sought  to 
pacify  her.  But  she  would  not.  She  must  speak  to  him 
alone  and  at  once.  Where  could  she? 

"I  am  on  my  way  to  the  vestry;  come  there,"  and  Sally 
followed  him.  As  they  passed  through  the  church  she 
glanced  quickly  at  the  east  window,  with  its  pink-lozenged 
panes  of  glass,  so  hideous,  so  dear.  Never  again  could  she 
lift  her  eyes  in  church  if  Jimmy  in  armour  gazed  reproach- 
fully down  upon  her — oh,  why  hadn't  she  really  loved  him  ? 
She  could  so  easily  have  done  it.  It  would  have  been  so 
easy  to  feel  gratitude  to  these  dear,  kind  people. 

The  Vicar  opened  the  vestry  door,  and  she  went  in.  He 
followed  her  and  offered  her  the  chair,  but  she  preferred  to 
stand. 

"Mr.  Masters,"  she  said,  "I  loved  Jimmy  ..." 

"My  child,  my  child,"  murmured  the  Vicar,  and  shutting 


190  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

his  eyes  he  saw,  as  in  a  vision,  Jimmy  in  armour  stand- 
ing ... 

"Yes,  but  not  as  you  think." 

He  opened  his  eyes;  the  vision  faded,  and  he  looked  out 
on  to  his  world  through  the  pink  light  of  the  lozenged  win- 
dow-panes, white  where  they  had  been  broken  and  rej 
placed. 

"No,  not  as  you  think,"  went  on  Sally.  "I  loved  him 
as  I  love  you  all — because  you're  so  delicious  to  me — so 
kind!  When  he  died  I  was  very  sorry;  but  it  wasn't  the 
kind  of  sorrow  it  would  have  been  if  ...  Then  I  came 
down  here  and  I  found  Anne  broken-hearted.  I  found  that 
it  would  help  her  if  she  could  think  I  had  loved  Jimmy — 
that  she  felt  if  she  could  think  of  Jimmy  as  having  died 
knowing  I  loved  him,  it  would  make  her  grief  easier  to 
bear;  and  I  love  Anne — I  love  her  so  much  that  I  felt 
nothing  would  be  too  great  a  thing  to  do  for  her,  and  I  told 
her — I  let  her  think — I  had  cared  that  way;  and  her  dear 
face  became  all  of  a  sudden — quite  different.  Then  I  real- 
ised what  I  had  done — I  had  taken  upon  myself  a  sorrow 
greater  than  I  could  feel.  Oh,  if  you  could  understand — 
and  now  I  feel  sad  that  I  can't  feel  sadder;  as  sad  as  I 
ought  to  be.  That's  what's  making  me  so  miserable;  I'm 
deceiving  every  one,  and  there's  some  one  ..." 

"Sally,  Sally,  my  child — why  do  you  tell  me  this?" 

"Because  you — and  only  you — can  save  me  this  me- 
morial. I  couldn't  bear  it,  please.  I  did  love  Jimmy;  but 
he  would  have  laughed — laughed  till  he  cried,  if  he  had 
imagined  himself  in  a  coloured  window — dressed  in  the 
armour  of — any  armour,"  and  Sally  fell  into  a  violent  fit 
of  sobbing,  and  the  poor  Vicar  was  distraught.  What  could 
he  do?  His  first  thought  was  of  Jaunty. 

Now  Jaunty  wasn't  far  off.  He  had  never  been  far  away 
when  his  Miss  Sally  wanted  him.  He  had  seen  her  going 
up  the  village ;  had  followed  her,  had  seen  her  walk  with  the 
Vicar,  and  had  guessed  that  here  was  another  kind  friend 
strapping  the  burden  of  sorrow  tighter  and  tighter  upon 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  191 

the  back  of  the  already  over-burdened  child,  so  he  fol- 
lowed her  at  a  distance,  and  when  the  Vicar  hurried  out  of 
the  vestry  he  found  him  waiting,  where  he  often  came  to 
stand,  asking  what  She  would  have  done  in  circumstances 
that  for  him  were  too  hard. 

"Jaunty!    You  here?"  said  the  Vicar. 

"Am  I  wanted,  sir?" 

"Go  into  the  vestry;  Miss  Sally  is  not  quite  herself." 

And  Jaunty  went  into  the  vestry  and  closed  the  door. 
He  stood  watching  the  bowed  figure  of  the  child  he  had 
loved  and  served  all  her  life.  Was  he  now  powerless  to 
help? 

She  raised  her  head  from  the  register  of  baptisms. 
"Jaunty,  I've  told  him — you  know  ..." 

"I've  guessed,"  said  Jaunty.     "Why  did  you  tell  him?" 

"Because  of  the  memorial,  Jaunty — I  couldn't  bear  it.  I 
should  love  him  to  have  something,  but  it  mustn't  be  any- 
thing to  do  with  me — any  more  than  any  one  else." 

"Miss  Sally,  you're  making  yourself  ill — what  would  She 
say?  Is  there  anything  behind  all  this  that  your  old 
Jaunty  doesn't  know — or  doesn't  understand?" 

"I'm  so  sorry  that  I  can't  be  sadder." 

"That  I  know — anything  else?  Your  funny  old  Jaunty 
has  known  that  all  along.  Is  there  anything  more?" 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  Sally  said,  "It's  no  use  trying 
to  keep  anything  from  you,  Jaunty — is  it?" 

"No  use;  yet  you  have  been  trying — to  do  it!" 

Sally  nodded.  Jaunty  drew  a  step  nearer,  and  laying 
his  hand  on  the  back  of  the  rush-bottomed  chair  on  which 
she  sat  said,  "Another  man,  for  whom  you  could  feel  what 
you  have  been  forced  to  feel  for  Mr.  Jimmy,  if  ...  ?" 

And  Sally  dried  her  tears  and  said,  "Look  here,  Jaunty, 
this  is  ridiculous;  come." 

And  she  smiled.  Her  secret  was  in  Jaunty's  safe  keep- 
ing, and  somehow  or  other  he  would  find  a  way  out. 

They  walked  home  together. 

"Miss  Sally,"  said  Jaunty,  as  they  walked,  "by  this  time 


192  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

under  ordinary  circumstances  it  would  be  time  you  began 
to  be  more  cheerful.  You  would  be  going  out  a  little — to 
tea  at  the  Vicarage,  if  you  wished  to  go  there.  You  would 
laugh  occasionally.  Your  poor  old  Jaunty  would  say,  'She's 
getting  better.'  He  would  go  to  your  father  and  would 
say,  'She's  better,  sir,  she  jumped  the  pampas  grass  at 
the  Vicarage  to-day,'  and  your  father  would  say,  'Jaunty, 
you  are  a  great  comfort  to  me' — which  he  will  never  say 
again  until  I  take  him  good  news  of  his  child.  You're 
overdoing  the  part,  Miss  Sally,  if  I  may  make  a  criticism." 
And  from  that  day  Panslea  remarked  a  change  in  Sally. 
She  began  to  take  more  notice  of  people  and  things,  and 
one  old  woman  swore  to  having  heard  her  sing.  When  it 
was  questioned  she  excused  it,  saying,  "The  young  soon 
forget;  yet  it's  not  so  much  forgetting  as  remembering 
without  pain — that's  what  it  is." 

Lord  Bridlington  was  a  little  unhappy  about  the  me- 
morial. He  had  seen  the  light  flame  in  the  Vicar's  face 
and  hated  to  extinguish  it.  So  he  cudgelled  his  brains  and 
wondered  to  whom  he  could  erect  a  memorial — or  dedicate 
a  window.  After  much  thought  he  decided  to  put  up  a 
window  to  the  memory  of  those  saints  who  had  died  in 
Panslea.  By  a  saint  he  meant  what  Sally  called  a  saint — 
any  particularly  good,  patient,  and  self-sacrificing  person, 
who  had  put  up  with  a  fractious,  nagging  wife,  or  rheuma- 
tism, or  any  other  infliction.  It  would  please  every  fam- 
ily, because  every  family  might  count  their  deceased  rela- 
tives among  the  saints;  and  if  any  woman  could  rise  to 
calling  her  late  husband  a  saint  because  he  had  lived  with 
her  in  such  peace  as  to  gain  the  crown,  then  she  herself 
would  be  in  a  fair  way  to  a  window  of  her  own,  for  to 
know  oneself  difficult  to  live  with  is  to  know  all. 

So  Lord  Bridlington  wrote  to  Mr.  Masters: 

"DEAR  MASTERS, — On  thinking  it  over  I  have  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  there  are  better  ways  perhaps  of  showing  sympathy 
with  Sally.  But  the  church  wants  a  window  badly — I  have 
thought  so  for  some  time.  It  has  struck  me — I  mean,  I  have 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  193 

very  often  been  struck  by  the  patience  of  the  poor  in  Panslea, 
who  have  fought  the  great  fight  and  have  lived  at  peace  with 
difficult  relations.  We  needn't  mention  any  names — but  just 
put  up  a  memorial  to  those  who  have  set  us  a  good  example. 
It's  an  idea,  I  think;  anyhow  it  will  give  the  church  a  window, 
what  it  needs  and  what  you  want  it  to  have.  A  young  man  in 
armour  of  course  won't  do;  but  almost  anything  else  would. 
Something  after  the  nature  of  Millet's  'Angelus' — that's  what 
gives  the  old  people  rheumatism,  working  in  the  fields !  Please 
let  me  know  what  you  think  of  the  idea.  It's  mine,  nothing  to 
do  with  Lawrence.  It  strikes  me  it  looks  a  little  as  if  it  might 
be.  The  screen,  I  think,  must  wait.  It  would  do  well  for  me 
when  my  time  comes  .  .  .  ? — Yours, 

"BHIDLINGTON. 

"P.  8. — Consult  Miss  Anne  about  the  mural  brass." 


XVIII 

WHEN  is  a  secret  not  sacred?  was  the  question  that  Mr. 
Masters  asked  himself  over  and  over  again  after  Sally's 
astounding  revelation.  He  wished  he  might  go  straight  to 
Anne  and  beg  her  to  lift  the  load  from  the  child's  shoul- 
ders. And  yet  it  was  for  Anne's  sake  that  the  child  had 
accepted  the  burden.  What  could  he  do  ? 

He  had  to  go  and  see  Anne.  It  would  give  him  the 
opportunity  to  see  how  she  looked.  If  her  burden  was 
growing  lighter  might  she  not  shift  Sally's  a  little — change 
its  position? 

He  found  Anne  in.  Her  beauty  seemed  rarefied  by  sor- 
row. From  her  eyes  shone  a  wonderful  light.  Was  it 
sorrow  alone  that  could  do  this?  Was  it  Sally's  act  of 
self-sacrifice  that  had  given  this  wonderful  addition  to 
Anne's  beauty?  The  Vicar  wondered.  He  had  seen  the 
same  light  in  the  eyes  of  lovers,  in  the  eyes  of  the  newly 
made  mother  .  .  .  but  never  quite  this  look  in  one  sorrow- 
ing. It  may  be  thought  that  every  one  in  Panslea  was 
beautiful.  They  were  no  more  so  than  in  any  other  place. 
But  Panslea  knew  where  to  look  for  beauty,  which  makes 
all  the  difference.  There  is  a  beauty  apart  from  feature — 
it  is  what  Jimmy  called  "the  light  behind,"  and  that  light 
shone  at  all  times  in  Anne's  eyes — and  in  that  lay  her  great 
charm.  And  it  is  a  charm  that  a  greater  beauty  than  Anne 
may  not  have.  She  may  if  she  likes — she  must  think  as 
Anne  thought — it's  not  so  easy  as  it  looks. 

"I  have  come,"  said  the  Vicar,  "to  lay  before  you  a 
scheme.  It  has  been  conceived  in  sympathy  and  born  of 
love  towards  you  and  your  dear  brother." 

The  tears  started  to  Anne's  eyes;  that,  of  course,  was 
only  to  be  expected.  The  Vicar  would  have  thought  it  un- 
natural if  his  voice  had  not  called  up  tears. 

194 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  195 

"We  would  suggest  a  brass  tablet  in  the  church  to  his 
memory — placed  so  that  many  of  us  may  see  it  during 
service,  and  remember." 

"It  is  very  kind,  very  kind  of  you  all — I  cannot  thank 
you  enough.  Somehow  or  other  I  cannot  quite  think  of 
Jimmy  in  brass ;  couldn't  it  be  something  for  the  old  people 
or  the  children?  Something  that  would  help  the  old 
and  .  .  ." 

"My  dear  Miss  Anne,  what  is  there?  If  you  can  think 
of  anything,  please  do." 

"I  will  ask  Sally." 

There  was  a  silence,  broken  only  by  the  grandfather's 
clock  that  ticked — tocked.  The  Vicar  hardly  dared  talk  of 
Sally  now  that  he  had  the  opportunity. 

"Or  else,"  said  Anne,  "a  window;  but  that  would  be 
too  much — too  expensive;  and  Jimmy — somehow  or  other 
I  cannot  connect  him  with  a  stained-glass  window ;  I  should 
have  loved  him,  though,  as  a  soldier,  if  that  had  been  pos- 
sible. His  favourite  text  as  a  boy  was  'Quit  you  like  men, 
be  strong.'  " 

"A  window,  of  course,"  said  the  Vicar  hastily,  "is  very 
costly.  ..." 

Anne  nodded.  She  said  she  thought  something  for  the 
poor  and  the  old — or  the  children — Jimmy  loved  them  all. 
"Mr.  Masters,  I  am  unhappy  about  Sally — I  think  she  is 
grieving  too  much.  Don't  you  see  a  great  change  in  her?" 

The  Vicar  said  he  did.  He  thought  it  was  partly  for 
Anne  herself  that  Sally  grieved.  "If  you  could  tell  her 
that  her  grief  adds  to  yours — she  is  so  curiously  unselfish, 
I  think  ..." 

"I  could  not  bear,"  said  Anne,  "to  think  I  had  added  to 
her  sorrow.  She  has  helped  me  so  much  in  mine." 

"The  young  must  be  allowed  to  forget,"  said  the  Vicar; 
"it  must  not  be  counted  against  them.  They  feel  deeply; 
but  they  heal  quickly." 

The  Vicar  left,  feeling  he  had  done  something  very 
small;  but  still  something  for  Sally. 


196  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

Meanwhile  Lord  Bridlington  had  chartered  the  steam 
yacht  that  was  to  bear  Sally  away — away  from  her  sorrow 
and  from  those  who  sorrowed  with  her. 

Those  who  had  sorrowed  with  her  were  puzzled.  They 
felt  they  were  kept  in  the  dark.  They  had  shared  her  sor- 
row, and  now  they  didn't  know  the  name  of  the  yacht  on 
which  she  had  sailed;  nor  where  she  had  gone.  Half  of 
Panslea  thought  brass  buttons  bad  taste  in  one  who  had 
never  yachted  before.  Jaunty  said  every  one  had  to  yacht 
for  the  first  time.  Panslea  thought  Jaunty  had  over- 
reached himself. 

They  did  not  think  a  yachting  cap  suited  to  Sally's  style 
of  beauty.  There  were  those  in  Panslea  who  rose  here  to 
say  that  her  beauty  was  of  that  triumphant  order,  anything 
became  it.  But  still  it  was  extravagance — unnecessary  ex- 
travagance. Ah,  that  was  another  thing  altogether.  There 
Mr.  Lawrence  was  never  to  be  understood. 

He  couldn't  afford  a  thing  he  needed,  and  instantly 
bought  another  he  couldn't  want  and  didn't  want — or  if  he 
did  he  gave  it  away. 

Jaunty  was  miserable.  Any  one  could  see  that.  He 
walked  aimlessly  about,  going  to  and  from  the  post  office 
at  those  hours  when  there  could  be  no  letters. 

Mr.  Lawrence  was  no  happier,  and  he  was  going  to  be 
very  much  unhappier.  But  that  he  didn't  know. 

It  wasn't  that  he  was  lonely — he  would  fain  have  been 
lonelier,  for  Janet  Mason  had  resumed  her  kind  atten- 
tions, and  one  day  when  he  spoke  in  his  haste  of  a  lonely 
old  age  without  his  children,  poor  Janet  broke  down  and 
tried  to  tell  him  that  he  had  no  need  to  look  forward  to 
a  lonely  old  age  .  .  .  and  when  it  dawned  upon  him  what 
she  meant  he,  poor  man,  was  overcome  with  remorse  and 
pity. 

"My  dear,  good,  and  beautiful  child,"  he  said.  (This 
was  another  case  of  beauty  in  Panslea;  Janet  wasn't  really 
beautiful  outside  the  radius  of  Mr.  Lawrence's  kindly  im- 
agination.) "My  dear,  beautiful,  and  good  child," — it 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  197 

bears  repetition  because  it  helped  Janet  so — "you  mustn't 
say  these  things — you  spoil  me.  I  have  traded  on  your 
kindness — your  generosity — you  must  forgive  me;  forgive 
an  old  man's  stupidity.  Here  you  have  been  amusing  me 
when  you  should  have  been  out  in  the  world  among  young 
things  of  your  own  age." 

Now  to  Janet  Mason  Mr.  Lawrence  wasn't  in  the  least 
old.  From  the  moment  when  she  had  first  seen  him,  on  that 
eventful  day  in  London,  he  had  seemed  to  her  a  veritable 
knight  of  old.  His  chivalrous  manner  had  then  and  there 
set  light  to  her  imagination,  and  her  heart  had  caught  fire 
and  had  smouldered  ever  since. 

His  apparent  helplessness  was  an  added  attraction,  and 
that  energy  that  had  wasted  itself  hitherto  in  making 
dozens  of  woollies  for  dozens  of  babies,  exhausted  itself  in 
a  vague  desire  to  mother  this  lonely  man. 

To  poor  Mr.  Lawrence  Janet  Mason  had  been  a  nice, 
kindly  young  woman — a  good  companion  for  Sally — not 
possessed  of  too  much  imagination;  but  of  great  good 
sense.  Now  it  was  quite  and  horribly  different.  He  begged 
her  dry  her  tears,  which  she  obediently  did,  or  rather  he 
did  it  for  her.  Then  he  asked  her  to  come  with  him  for 
one  moment.  Obediently  she  followed  him.  He  sat  down 
at  his  writing-table,  and  opening  a  drawer  took  from  it  a 
photograph.  "I  don't  think  I  have  ever  shown  you  this," 
he  said.  "It  is  my  wife  as  she  was  when  I  first  met  her. — 
Yes,  Sally  is  very  like  her,  isn't  she?  And  Pamela  too! 
Yes,  just  there,"  he  followed  the  wavering  line  of  Janet's 
finger;  "I  see  the  likeness  very  strongly." 

"But  neither  quite  ..."  said  Janet;  her  lip  trembling, 
her  chin  wobbling. 

"No,  not  quite — no  one  could  ever  be  quite  ..." 

"I  think  I  had  better  go,"  said  Janet;  and  it  was  really 
better  she  should,  because  there  was  nothing  more  to  be 
said.  Yes,  there  was ;  Mr.  Lawrence  again  said  she  was  a 
dear,  good,  kind  young  woman.  .  .  .  She  would  have  pre- 
ferred "beautiful  child/'  but  one  doesn't  hear  that  kind  of 


198  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

thing  more  than  once  in  a  lifetime — especially  when  it 
isn't  quite  true. 

Janet  felt  as  well  as  she  could  feel  under  the  rather 
painful  circumstances,  and  she  did  not  love  Mr.  Lawrence 
any  the  less  for  it  all.  She  loved  him  differently. 

Panslea,  of  course,  knew  nothing  of  all  this — not  even 
Jaunty,  though  what  he  chose  to  guess  was  his  own  affair. 

"It  had  to  come,"  he  said  to  himself;  "the  sooner  it's 
over  the  better.  But  will  he  make  it  final?" 

Then  he  added,  "He  would  be  quite  capable  of  telling 
her  she  was  beautiful.  ..." 


XIX 

IT  was  not  easy  for  Mademoiselle  to  lie  on  her  sofa  with 
nothing  to  do  and  no  one  to  teach.  Jaunty  suggested  she 
should  give  lessons.  Mademoiselle  asked,  To  whom? 

Jaunty  said  to  Miss  Doe  and  her  sister.     Why  not? 

Mademoiselle  said,  Did  they  want  lessons?  And  Jaunty 
seemed  to  think  that  was  not  the  question.  It  was  Made- 
moiselle who  wanted  an  object  in  life.  So  he  sallied  forth 
to  arrange  things.  He  went  to  Miss  Doe's  house  and  de- 
manded an  audience  of  Miss  Eleanor,  the  weaker  of  the 
two  sisters.  It  was  granted  him,  readily  enough.  Jaunty 
amused  the  gentle  sisters.  "What  is  it?"  asked  Miss 
Eleanor. 

"The  French  lady  at  our  house,"  said  Jaunty,  and  he 
vaguely  touched  his  forehead. 

Miss  Eleanor  shrank  in  alarm.     "Not  .    .    .  ?"  she  said. 

Jaunty  nodded.  "Too  much  of  the  French  language 
stored  there — can't  get  out.  It  doesn't  do.  It's  an  excit- 
able language,  it  ferments." 

Miss  Eleanor  asked  what  she  could  do. 

"Well,  miss,  what  about  your  accent?  Is  it  rusty  at  all? 
Because  Mademoiselle  has  plenty  of  time  and  could  rub  it 
up  in  no  time.  There's  nothing  like  practice." 

"I  could  come  and  talk  for  an  hour  in  the  morning?" 

"And  read,  n'est-ce-pas  ?"  said  Jaunty. 

Miss  Eleanor  hesitated ;  she  had  never  read  French  books 
— on  principle.  Jaunty  guessed  that,  and  he  met  her  ob- 
jection by  assuring  her  that  Miss  Sally's  books — each  one 
of  them  above  suspicion — were  bound  in  brown  cloth. 
Would  Miss  Eleanor  come?  and  Miss  Eleanor  said  she 
would — just  for  an  hour  in  the  morning. 

"That's  one,"  said  Jaunty,  as  he  shut  the  garden  door 

199 


200  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

with  a  click,  "and  she's  too  good  to  hurry  away — and  too 
timorous." 

To  Anne's  cottage  he  went  next.  He  met  her  coming 
out.  "Well,  Jaunty?"  she  said,  "any  news?" 

"Mademoiselle  is  moping,  miss." 

"Poor  Mademoiselle!     I  must  come  and  see  her." 

"It's  the  language  that  is  doing  it.  She  must  talk 
French  or  she  frets." 

Anne  said  she  would  come  and  talk. 

"She  would  rather  teach,"  said  Jaunty.  "It's  that  that's 
worrying  her.  She  thinks  she's  doing  nothing  for  her 
living.  Your  French  is  too  good,  I  suppose?" 

Anne  said  it  was  far  from  too  good.  Mademoiselle 
should  teach  her.  Jaunty  suggested  it  should  be  easy 
enough  to  forget  what  you  knew  if  you  wanted  to  from 
motives  of  Christianity — or  expediency. 

"When  shall  I  come?"  asked  Anne,  prepared  to  forget 
everything  in  a  good  cause. 

"Say  eleven  in  the  morning?" 

Anne  agreed;  she  liked  the  gentle  little  Mademoiselle. 

"That's  two,"  said  Jaunty. 

The  next  person  he  met  was  Miss  Mason. 

"There  will  be  French  instruction  at  Mr.  Lawrence's 
house  every  morning  at  eleven  o'clock,  until  further  no- 
tice," he  announced. 

Janet  said  she  thought  she  knew  French  fairly 
well  .  .  . 

"Well,  miss,  that's  a  matter  of  opinion,  of  course.  If 
you  will  excuse  me  saying  so — didn't  you  speak  of  gants 
de  suede  gloves  the  other  day?  It's  mistakes  of  that  kind 
that  hurt  Mademoiselle.  At  eleven  o'clock,  every  morn- 
ing. Good-morning." 

The  class  was  growing.  It  was  enough  to  begin  with, 
at  all  events,  and  a  few  mornings  later  Jaunty  had  shown 
up  to  Mademoiselle's  room  the  two  Miss  Does,  Miss  Mason, 
and  Miss  Beech.  Jaunty  listened  at  the  door,  as  innocent 
of  curiosity  as  the  roses  that  peeped  in  at  the  window.  He 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  201 

wanted  only  to  discover  by  the  sound  of  her  voice  whether 
Mademoiselle  was  happy  or  not.  The  first  words  tri- 
umphantly proclaimed  her  a  satisfied  Frenchwoman. 

He  stepped  on  tiptoe  down  the  passage.  At  the  top  of 
the  stairs  he  paused.  He  looked  to  the  right,  then  to  the 
left.  Desolation  on  all  sides — empty  rooms — no  echoes. 
Then  he  went  downstairs  into  the  library.  Mr.  Lawrence 
was  there.  Jaunty  asked  him  when  Miss  Sally  was  re- 
turning. He  learned  with  joy  that  she  was  coming  back 
almost  at  once.  Was  she  better?  Mr.  Lawrence  thought 
so;  she  didn't  say;  she  seemed  more  taken  up  with  the 
sunsets  than  anything.  Their  beauty,  he  meant.  Jaunty 
pursed  his  lips.  He  was  sorry  to  hear  that.  There  was 
poetry  in  sunsets,  and  in  poetry  there  lay  sadness.  Poetry 
meant  brooding.  He  had  hoped  Miss  Sally  was  beyond 
sunsets  by  now.  Sunsets  came  early  in  the  convalescent 
stage. 

"Don't  let  that  disturb  you,  Jaunty,"  said  Mr.  Lawrence. 

"And  Mrs.  Monk?"  asked  Jaunty. 

Mr.  Lawrence  smiled.  "Come  here,"  he  said;  and 
Jaunty,  wondering,  followed  him  out  of  the  room  into 
the  hall.  It  couldn't  be  dust  on  the  stairs,  because  Mr. 
Lawrence  never  noticed  that.  Nor  could  it  be  a  bird's 
nest  in  a  strange  place — nesting  days  were  over,  so  why 
this  mystery? 

Mr.  Lawrence  put  his  foot  on  the  loose  rug  at  the  bottom 
of  the  stairs.  "Do  you  remember  how  the  children  used  to 
slip  on  that?" 

Jaunty  remembered.  They  were  quite  accustomed  to  it 
now. 

"But  when  they  weren't  accustomed  to  it?  What  did 
you  do?" 

"Do?  Why,  I  nailed  it  down,  of  course."  What  were 
oak  floors  compared  to  children? 

"Well,  Jaunty,  you  must  see  to  it — there's  no  hurry,  but 
begin  to  look  for  the  hammer  and  nails.  I  can't  have  my 
grandchild  tumbling  about  ..." 


202  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

"Grand — child?"  said  Jaunty  faintly. 

"Now,  now,  Jaunty — be  a  man — be  a  man!  I  shall 
want  your  help;  I  can't  bring  up  a  grandchild  without  it." 

Jaunty  put  his  hand  to  his  heart  and  found  it  beating 
quickly,  then  he  said  he  doubted  if  Mr.  Lawrence  could. 

"I'm  glad  of  it  for  more  reasons  than  one,  sir,"  he  said 
when  he  had  sufficiently  recovered;  "that  poor  thing  up- 
stairs. I've  done  what  I  can  for  her — I've  collected  a 
class.  That'll  do  to  go  on  with.  Now  there's  a  grand- 
child to  come  she  can  teach  that  French." 

Mr.  Lawrence  said  it  seemed  a  long  way  to  look  ahead. 
And  Jaunty  said  with  children  you  couldn't  begin  too 
young. 

Then  he  went  to  his  room,  and  sitting  down  at  a  table 
pulled  out  a  drawer  in  which  he  kept  his  treasures  and 
secrets,  and  out  of  the  drawer  he  took  a  letter.  He  drew 
the  letter  from  its  envelope  and,  spreading  it  before  him, 
he  read  these  words:  "With  care  there  is  no  reason  you 
should  not  live  some  years."  A  doctor  had  written  them. 

"With  care"  murmured  Jaunty,  "with  care.  I  must 
live  to  see  that  child. — I  wish  it  had  been  another — with 
care — the  greatest  care  in  the  world,  could  I  live  to  see  that 
other? — O  God,  it's  all  I  ask,  and  for  the  good  of  the  child 
only — well,  partly — I  ask  it.  Mr.  Lawrence  would  spoil 
it." 

Mademoiselle's  class  grew.  Michael  Mason  joined  it. 
He  came  down  every  week-end,  and  Jaunty  noticed  that 
Anne's  mourning  was  relieved  by  a  white  scarf,  a  light  in 
her  eyes  and  a  smile  on  her  lips. 

They  were  signs,  and  Jaunty  read  them,  and  read  them 
aright. 

Anne  was  finding  happiness.  What  of  Miss  Sally? 
Jaunty  was  only  waiting  his  time.  The  moment  Miss 
Beech  was  happy  enough  to  bear  the  shock  of  hearing  it,  he 
was  going  to  tell  her  that  Miss  Sally  was  going  to  be  happy 
too  ...  or  would  be  if  God  willed  it  to  come  right,  and 
the  young  man  proposed.  It  was  only  fair,  and  Jaunty 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  80S 

watched  Anne's  face  from  day  to  day.  And  as  it  grew  in 
the  beauty  of  happiness  Jaunty's  grew  happy  in  the 
thought  of  the  happiness  that  awaited  his  Miss  Sally.  He 
didn't  know  what  the  happiness  was,  nor  from  whence  it 
should  come,  but  it  had  to  come. 


XX 


MRS.  LOMBARD  wrote  to  her  brother: 

"JOHK  DEAEEST, — Seeing  you  has  made  me  hungry  to  see 
more  of  you.  I  didn't  know  how  much  of  my  heart  was  left  in 
those  long  ago  days  when  we  were  so  happy  together.  I  have 
drifted  away  from  you  and  have  been  cast  up  on  the  shallows 
of  society.  It's  not  worth  it.  I  can  see  that  now.  You  with 
your  extraordinarily  different  life  are  to  be  envied;  but  come 
and  see  something  of  our  life,  judge  for  yourself.  Come  and 
see  what  poor  Tom  used  to  call  'the  young  entry.'  You  will 
see  some  very  pretty  girls.  Of  course,  you  think  everything  of 
your  own,  but  come  and  see  what  other  parents  can  do  without 
the  intervention  of  an  extraordinary  butler. 

"Douglas  Bentleigh  is  going  to  be  married  next  week — to 
quite  a  beauty,  in  her  own  rather  peculiar  line.  When  we  were 
young,  dear,  a  beauty  was  a  beauty  and  nothing  more.  I  want 
you  to  see  what  constitutes  beauty  nowadays.  You  probably, 
dear  old  thing,  will  think  her  the  ugliest  thing  you  ever  saw, 
but  you  will  be  wrong.  She's  not  pretty  or  lovely — she's  beau- 
tiful. Do  come !  It  will  be  great  fun.  You  don't  look  like  a 
poet  or  anything  of  that  kind,  do  you?  Heaven  knows  what 
your  clothes  will  be  like. — Your  aifec.  sister,  V.  L. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  Sally.  I  am  afraid  she  is  be- 
having foolishly." 

"Jaunty,  shall  I  go  and  stay  with  Mrs.  Lombard?" 

"Why  not,  sir?" 

And  Mr.  Lawrence  had  no  good  reason  to  offer  against 
going,  but  he  didn't  say  anything  about  the  wedding  to 
Jaunty.  He  had  an  idea  Jaunty  would  insist  on  unearthing 
a  certain  pair  of  mauve  striped  trousers  that  lay  in  cam- 
phor in  a  bottom  drawer.  Let  mauve  troupers  lie. 

"I,  too,  sir,"  said  Jaunty,  "would  like  to  go  up  to  Lon- 
don if  you  have  no  objection,"  and  Mr.  Lawrence,  of 

204 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  205 

course,  had  none.  Why  shouldn't  Jaunty  do  as  he  did?  It 
was  better  they  should  do  something;  they  were  getting 
into  a  groove. 

"Go  by  all  means,  Jaunty,  and  look  before  you  cross." 

And  Jaunty  went,  promising  to  look  before  he  crossed, 
and  to  return  on  the  same  day  and  by  the  same  train  as 
Mr.  Lawrence. 

"We  had  better  be  independent,  Jaunty,"  said  Mr.  Law- 
rence, and  Jaunty  wondered  if  it  lay  within  their  power. 
"Yes,  sir,  we  must  try." 

So  Mr.  Lawrence  to  his  sister;  Jaunty  to  his. 

Mr.  Lawrence  arrived  at  Mrs.  Lombard's  house,  and  the 
butler  almost  betrayed  himself  by  the  warmth  of  his  man- 
ner. He  had  the  greatest  respect  for  this  tall  gentleman 
who  was  so  unlike  the  sister  he  served.  He  would  gladly 
have  opened  the  door  oftener  to  him,  or  have  taught  a 
footman  to  do  it,  swinging  it  to  its  widest. 

Mr.  Lawrence  followed  him  upstairs,  remembering  to 
ask  as  they  went  for  the  man's  wife.  She  proved  to  be 
very  much  as  usual.  That  her  health  was  always  much  as 
usual  Mr.  Lawrence  had  learned  from  Sally;  but  what  the 
usual  was  he  had  forgotten.  A  little  knowledge  had  proved 
a  dangerous  thing  had  they  not  reached  the  drawing-room 
door. 

"My  dear,  dear  John,"  said  Mrs.  Lombard,  "you  suit 
London  better  than  I  thought.  I  shall  be  proud  of  you. 
Now  tell  me  about  Sally.  What's  to  be  done  about  Captain 
Wentford?"  She  drew  John  down  on  to  the  sofa  beside 
her. 

"Who  is  he?  I  don't  know,"  said  Mr.  Lawrence,  laying 
his  hand  on  his  sister's  and  looking  into  her  face,  seeing  in 
it  what  no  one  else  looked  for — the  simplicity  that  had  been 
hers  years  ago.  To  John  Lawrence  it  was  there,  but  "dried 
up,"  he  said  gently. 

"My  skin,  John?     How  cruel  you  are!" 

"Did  I  say  skin  ? — I  didn't  mean  it.     I  was  thinking." 


206  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

"Why,  John,  have  we  seen  so  little  of  each  other — 
lately?" 

"Why,  oh  why?  It  seems  a  pity,  doesn't  it?  But  some- 
how or  other  children  make  one  selfish.  My  interests  have 
become  so  child-centred.  You  don't  blame  me?" 

"My  dear,  I  wish  I  could — in  a  way.  I  can  only  blame 
myself.  .  .  .  But  Neil  Wentford — of  course  you  know?" 

John  Lawrence  said  he  knew  nothing. 

"But,  my  dear  John,  we  all  know." 

"I  don't;  what  is  it?" 

"Why,  he's  head  over  ears  in  love  with  Sally — and  he's 
such  a  dear,  and  has  a  nice  place  in  Scotland.  O  John, 
surely  you  won't  do  anything  to  prevent  so  excellent  a 
marriage  for  her?  He's  everything  one  could  wish — that 
you  could  wish.  So  well  thought  of  in  his  profession — so 
charming,  so  sympathetic.  ..." 

"But,  my  dear  V.,  poor  little  Sally  is  broken-hearted 
over  the  death  of  young  Beeeh." 

"Nothing  of  the  sort,  my  dear  John.  I  was  there  when 
your  letter  came.  She  was  upset,  of  course,  because  she's 
a  loving,  loyal-hearted  creature;  but  she  was  no  more 
grieving  for  the  man  she  loved  than  I  was.  Of  course  she 
was  upset.  There  was  romance  in  it — the  poor  boy  dying 
away  from  home  and  so  suddenly;  but,  my  dear  John,  Sally 
was  much  more  up"et  when  Neil  Wentford  couldn't  come 
to  dinner — much  more.  Although  I  am  bound  to  say  she 
did  her  best  to  hide  it.  But,  John,  they  can't  hide  it  from 
one  who  remembers.  Do  you  remember — do  you  remem- 
ber how  the  joy  of  the  whole  world  lay  in  sitting  next  to 
some  particular  person?  Do  you  remember  the  desolation 
of  the  day  when  at  some  picnic  you  did  not  sit  next  the 
particular  person?  Ridiculous  John,  you  have  no  right  to 
be  the  father  of  two  girls  unless  you  remember  that — and 
much,  much  more." 

"Not  quite  dried  up,"  said  John,  looking  at  her  with  a 
smile  in  his  eyes.  "I  see  it  all  now.  ..." 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  207 

'Don't  be  ridiculous.     What  is  not  quite  dried  up?" 

"Your  love,  your  sympathy.  ..." 

"Can  nothing  make  you  listen  to  me?  What  am  I  to  do? 
Here  is  Neil  Wentford  pouring  out  his  soul  to  me — really 
every  man  in  love  is  a  poet.  What  am  I  to  say?" 

"You  must  say  what  is  true— that  Sally  has  cared  for 
some  one  else.  It  can't  be  helped.  I  am  very  sorry  for 
this  man.  .  .  ." 

"Don't  speak  of  him  as  'this  man';  it  maddens  me." 

"I  am  very  sorry.  Sally  has  gone  away  to  recover,  poor 
child — if  there  is  such  a  thing  as  recovery." 

"Recovery?  Of  course  there  is.  Sally  never  cared. 
Who  suggested  it  to  her?" 

Luncheon  was  announced,  and  John  Lawrence  and  Mrs. 
Lombard  lunched  hurriedly — John  for  the  moment  made  a 
mental  note  to  go  out  afterwards  and  congratulate  Serena; 
then  he  remembered. 

"We  mustn't  be  late,  John,"  said  his  sister. 

John  said  it  sounded  as  though  they  were  going  to  an 
entertainment,  and  she  said  they  were.  He  asked  who  the 
bride  was. 

"Her  name  is  Marr.  She  is  very  tall,  very  thin,  very 
pale,  with  very  red  lips." 

"I  hate  the  type,"  said  John,  honest  John. 

"My  dear,  good  man,  you've  never  seen  it.  It's  the 
very  latest  thing." 

Mr.  Lawrence  found  plenty  to  interest  him  at  the  wed- 
ding. It  was  years  since  he  had  been  to  anything  of  the 
kind.  His  mauve  trousers  had  seen  much  service;  but 
they  had  bent  the  knee  at  Panslea  weddings  only.  All 
fashionable  London  was  congregated  here.  The  clothes 
were  strange  to  him,  the  people  who  wore  them  stranger; 
strangest  of  all  their  manners.  He  forgot  he  was  in  church, 
and  he  wasn't  the  only  one.  He  rose  with  the  congrega- 
tion when  the  bride  walked  up  the  aisle.  She  swayed  as 
she  walked.  Her  hair  was  dark,  her  face  was  white,  her 
lips  were  red,  and  her  eyes  matched  the  long  jade  earrings 


208  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

she  wore.  It  was  very  clever  of  her,  he  thought,  to  have 
made  herself  into  what  passed  as  a  beauty — passed  every 
one,  and  not  one  denied  her  claim. 

Douglas  Bentleigh,  of  course,  interested  him  immensely. 
He  had  liked  him  that  day  at  Panslea.  He  had  found  him 
fresh  and  ingenuous.  He  was  probably  neither  the  one 
nor  the  other,  but  it  was  clever  of  him  to  pass  as  both,  and 
no  one  would  have  denied  him  those  qualifications,  least  of 
all  John  Lawrence. 

The  service  was  beautifully  read,  and  the  music  was  soul- 
stirring  to  one  who  had  heard  nothing  of  the  kind  for 
years.  But  it  made  him  unhappy;  made  him  think  of  days 
gone  by;  of  Sally  and  Pamela  as  children;  of  things  be- 
fore that.  Jaunty  should  have  been  there  too  to  share 
this  discomfort.  It  would  have  done  him  good  to  see  these 
people.  He  would  have  been  shocked;  but  he  had  got  into 
a  groove;  he  should  come  out  of  it. 

Mr.  Lawrence  was  on  the  point  of  asking  his  sister  the 
name  of  a  girl  who  sat  just  in  front  of  them  whose  fine 
beauty  appealed  to  him,  when  she  nudged  him.  "The 
Wedding  March,  John,"  she  said;  "here  they  are!" 

As  if  he  didn't  know  the  Wedding  March — as  if  he 
hadn't  played  it  dozens  of  times  at  the  weddings  of  Sally's 
dolls.  The  bride  and  bridegroom  passed  down  the  aisle, 
the  bride  quite  close  to  Mr.  Lawrence. 

She  was  certainly  a  type  new  to  him — a  disquieting  type. 
Not  the  kind  of  friend  he  would  choose  for  Pamela  and 
Sally.  Sally  he  knew  wouldn't  like  her — Pamela,  he 
thought,  would. 

Douglas  Bentleigh  looked  .    .    . 

Mr.  Lawrence  hadn't  time  to  see  how  or  what,  for  down 
the  aisle  came  a  tall  woman  who  had  once  been  beautiful 
and  couldn't  forget  it.  She  dressed  the  part.  John  no- 
ticed her,  of  course,  but  his  eyes  were  riveted  upon  the 
little  man  who  walked  beside  her — a  little  man  with  a 
certain  air  of  quiet  distinction.  John  Lawrence  knew  his 
face.  He  must  be  a  member  of  Parliament,  or  some  one 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  209 

well  known  to  the  public.  Then  the  little  man  looked  to- 
wards Mr.  Lawrence  and  Mr.  Lawrence  met  the  eyes  of 
Jaunty.  Jaunty  with  a  yellow  carnation  in  his  buttonhole 
and  on  his  arm  the  hand  of  the  faded  beauty. 

Mr.  Lawrence  looked  at  Jaunty;  Jaunty  at  Mr.  Law- 
rence, very  gently  inclining  his  head,  remembering  where 
he  was,  and  looking  as  though  he  bowed  from  a  sense  of 
politeness  to  some  one  he  didn't  recognise. 

"Do  you  want  to  go  to  the  house?"  whispered  Mrs.  Lom- 
bard to  John. 

"Yes." 

"Really?" 

"Don't  you?" 

Mrs.  Lombard  said  she  did,  naturally.  The  young  peo- 
ple were  going  off  in  a  caravan,  but  she  thought  men  .  .  . 

John  persisted  that  he  would  like  to  go  to  the  house. 

When  he  got  there  he  hid  himself  as  well  as  he  could 
and  watched  Jaunty.  He  saw  him  cowering  in  a  corner. 
He  in  one,  Mr.  Lawrence  in  another.  Both  in  hiding.  In 
time  Jaunty  was  discovered.  He  was  to  take  the  faded 
beauty  down  to  the  dining-room.  He  did  it.  At  least  Mr. 
Lawrence  supposed  so,  for  he  disappeared.  After  a  few 
minutes  he  returned  and  whispered  something  to  the  bride- 
groom's mother.  Did  Jaunty  imagine  it  was  Serena  who 
presided  over  the  kitchen? 

That  John  Lawrence  was  puzzled  doesn't  in  the  least 
describe  his  feelings  on  leaving  the  house  with  his  sister. 
His  mind  was  in  a  state  of  chaos — and  down  the  back  of 
his  collar  he  suffered  a  handful  of  rice  at  the  hand  of 
Jaunty. 

"Did  you  see  that  old  man  who  had  such  a  ridiculous 
look  of  your  absurd  Jaunty?"  she  asked. 

"A  look?"  said  John  Lawrence. 

"Well,  I  thought  so.     Did  the  wedding  impress  you?" 

Mr.  Lawrence  said,  More  than  anything  in  his  life  had 
ever  impressed  him. 

"What  surprised  you  most?" 


210  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

"The  guests." 

"Yes,  my  dear  John,  a  London  crowd  is  an  education. 
— Do  you  now  see  how  Panslea  stands  still?" 

He  said  nothing.  He  was  off  at  once  to  see  if  Panslea 
still  stood  where  it  did.  He  could  hardly  believe  it  possi- 
ble. Nothing  could  keep  him.  No  entreaty  on  the  part 
of  his  sister — no  nothing !  He  must  go,  and  he  went. 

At  half-past  seven  o'clock  the  next  morning  Jaunty 
brought  him  a  cup  of  tea,  as  usual. 

Jaunty  pulled  up  the  blind. 

Mr.  Lawrence  lay  in  bed  and  looked  at  him.  "Jaunty," 
he  said,  "did  you  admire  the  bride?" 

"Not  my  style,  sir — not  what  I  have  been  accustomed 
to." 

Mr.  Lawrence  hadn't  expected  this.  He  had  thought 
Jaunty  would  hesitate,  would  ask  what  Mr.  Lawrence 
meant.  Not  at  all !  With  his  hand  on  the  blind-cord,  di- 
recting its  wayward  course,  he  calmly  said  the  bride  wasn't 
what  he  was  accustomed  to.  He  might  have  made  up  his 
mind  to  make  himself  accustomed,  so  calm  was  his  manner. 

"Have  you  no  explanation  to  offer,  Jaunty?" 

"Have  you  none,  sir?" 

"My  part  is  easily  explained.  I  went  to  the  wedding 
with  Mrs.  Lombard — at  her  invitation." 

"I  went  to  the  wedding,  sir,  at  the  request  of  Mrs.  Bent- 
leigh." 

"Mrs.  Lombard  is  my  sister." 

"And  Mrs.  Bentleigh — mine,"  said  Jaunty,  not  to  be 
beaten. 

"Jaunty !" 

Jaunty  stepped  to  the  foot  of  the  bed.  There  was  gentle 
supplication  in  his  manner.  It  said:  Would  Mr.  Law- 
rence deal  gently  with  the  matter — whatever  the  matter 
was? 

"That  explains  nothing,"  said  Mr.  Lawrence.  "Mrs. 
Bentleigh,  that  beautifully  dressed  .  .  ." 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  211 

"My  sister,  sir — overdressed,  I  thought.  It  is  the  mis- 
take women  make.  She's  risen  well,  but  she  makes  mis- 
takes in  colours.  Need  we  pursue  the  subject  further, 
sir?" 

"Of  course  we  must.  Come  to  the  library  after  break- 
fast." 

And  after  breakfast  Jaunty  went  to  the  library. 

Outside  the  door  he  stood  one  moment,  and  in  his  heart 
he  prayed  these  words: 

"Let  not  the  simplicity  of  years  suspect." 


XXI 


"WHAT  was  your  father?"  asked  Mr.  Lawrence  as  Jaunty 
closed  the  door. 

"A  doctor,  sir." 

"Of  divinity?" 

"Of  medicine." 

"A  successful  doctor?" 

"No,  sir — clever;  but  he  didn't  believe  in  medicine." 

"That  need  not  have  made  him  unsuccessful." 

"He  confided  his  unbelief  to  his  patients." 

"Did  they  believe  in  him?" 

"They  believed  in  his  good  faith." 

"Did  their  faith  save  them?" 

"Sometimes." 

"If  they  died  did  your  father  hold  himself  responsible?" 

"He  took  no  money." 

"And  you  are  the  son  of  your  father  ?" 

"In  not  taking  money?" 

"Forgive  me,  Jaunty — sit  down."  He  preferred  to 
stand. 

"Now,  Jaunty,  what  does  it  all  mean?" 

"It  means,  sir,  this,  and  only  this.  Years  ago  I  was 
broken  in  spirit — suspected  and  unhappy." 

"And  innocent?" 

"And  innocent,  sir;  you  guessed  that?" 

Mr.  Lawrence  said  he  knew  it. 

"Then  you  didn't  forgive  me?  I  shall  miss  that  sense 
of  forgiveness.  It's  a  good  bed-fellow." 

"I  have  forgiven  you  much  since — your  face  gave  you 
away  then  as  it  does  now.  Go  on." 

"Well,  sir,  you  took  me  in — you  gave  me  your  confidence. 
She,"  he  pointed  to  the  picture  of  Mrs.  Lawrence,  "gave 

212 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  313 

me  the  care  of  her  children,  your  children.  My  sister 
loved  her  husband,  I  loved  her.  I  shielded  him  to  spare 
her.  He  died ;  too  soon,  in  one  sense.  He  was  clever  about 
money;  if  he  had  lived  longer  that  money  would  have  been 
repaid.  He  died  with  irons  in  the  fire,  but  the  fire  was 
hardly  kindled.  A  friend  of  his — he  had  very  few — chose 
to  call  him  unfortunate — believed  in  him,  and  promised  to 
look  after  my  sister's  affairs.  So  well  did  he  look  after 
them  that  my  sister  became  a  rich  woman.  He  invested  at 
the  right  moment.  He  got  in  on  the  ground  floor  and  sold 
from  the  chimney  pots — business  terms,  sir.  My  sister 
wasn't  a  clever  enough  woman  to  question  her  right  to  the 
money,  in  the  first  instance.  She  and  I  had  been  much  to 
each  other  in  the  old  days.  But  her  husband  became  more. 
She  grew  accustomed  to  do  without  me.  She  was  content 
to  hear  I  was  alive  and  well.  She  didn't  know  I  was  a  bad 
butler;  she  only  knew  I  was  a  bad  man. — Well,  that's  all, 
sir,  except  that  by  some  curious  chance  her  son  came  to 
Panslea,  after  Miss  Sally,  I  thought — so  I  disclosed  myself 
— the  furious  uncle — and  sent  him  about  his  business,  and 
that's  all.  About  the  wedding,  I  went  because  it  eased  my 
sister's  mind.  She  asked  me  to  the  wedding,  because  in  a 
sense  she  thought  it  made  up.  It  would  have  been — snob- 
bish— not  to  have  asked  me;  a  wedding  is  the  place  where 
queer  relatives  may  be  expected — are  countenanced  even. 
Were  you  invited,  sir — forgive  the  question?" 

Mr.  Lawrence  looked  at  Jaunty;  the  familiar  figure 
seemed  somehow  or  other  to  have  assumed  heroic  propor- 
tions. 

"You  old  scoundrel!     I  knew  you  weren't  a  butler." 

"No  one  but  you,  sir,  would  have  thought  of  calling  me 
one." 

Mr.  Lawrence  wondered  if  they  would  have  to  make 
changes — wondered  if  they  should  part.  .  .  . 

"Where  would  you  go,  sir?"  asked  Jaunty,  his  old  face 
puckering  as  it  was  wont  to  do  in  moments  of  great  anxiety 
and  perplexity. 


214  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

Mr.  Lawrence  laughed.  He  told  him  to  sit  down.  Jaunty 
said  he  would  rather  not.  Mr.  Lawrence  said  it  wouldn't 
be  the  first  time  he  had  stayed  to  talk — he  had  often  talked 
for  hours  at  a  time. — Well,  not  hours  perhaps  .  .  . 

"Yes,  sir;  but  I  was  always  on  the  point  of  going." 

Mr.  Lawrence  asked  if  that  made  a  difference,  and 
Jaunty  said  all  the  difference  in  the  world.  The  most  re- 
spectful servant  might  stand  at  the  door — so  to  speak. 

"It's  an  impossible  situation,  Jaunty." 

"I  have  never  thought  of  it  as  a  situation,"  he  answered, 
"but  if  you  wish  it  so  .  .  ." 

"The  children — what  shall  we  tell  them?" 

Jaunty  said  what  was  there  to  tell?  Nothing!  It 
would  be  impossible  to  tell  Miss  Sally  that  she  had  liked 
the  nephew  of  her  father's  butler.  .  .  .  "One  thing  while 
we  are  on  the  subject,  sir — that  money?  It  was  repaid  a 
few  days  after  I  entered  your  service.  ..." 

"My  dear  Jaunty,  we  have  never  worried  about  money, 
have  we?" 

"Well,  sir,  /  have.     What  else  have  I  worried  about?" 

"We  never  will  again.  Now,  let's  talk  of  something  else. 
I  wonder  how  Miss  Sally  is  getting  on?" 

That  was  a  subject  on  which  Jaunty  could  talk  for 
ever.  He  talked  so  much  that  he  made  Mr.  Lawrence 
talk,  and  Mr.  Lawrence  told  him  that  some  one  was  in 
love  with  Miss  Sally.  Jaunty  was  not  to  be  put  off  with  a 
little  information.  He  had  to  understand  the  question  thor- 
oughly. Well,  then,  according  to  Mrs.  Lombard,  some  one 
was  in  love  with  Miss  Sally,  and  Miss  Sally  was  mourning 
for  some  one  else — so  her  father  said. 

Jaunty  knew  she  wasn't.  He  saw  light  in  darkness. 
Miss  Sally  was  unhappy  because  that  some  one  she  loved 
thought  she  was  mourning  for  some  one  else.  Here  was 
work  for  Jaunty — no  butler's  work  this — nor  was  the 
work  cut  out  for  him;  but  he  was  going  to  cut  it  out  to  his 
own  measure.  The  young  man,  whoever  he  was,  should 
hear  the  true  story,  or  Jaunty's  name  wasn't  Jaunty. — As 
a  matter  of  fact,  it  wasn't. 


XXII 

SALLY  in  Scotland  began  to  forget  her  troubles.  She  found 
she  could  loosen  the  cloak  of  sorrow,  and  having  loosened 
it  she  had  only  to  let  it  drop  from  her.  She  let  it  drop. 
Then  ashamed  that  she  should  have  done  so,  she  picked  it 
up  and  reverently  folding  it — in  her  mind — laid  it  away  in 
her  heart.  It  had  been  given  by  Anne  and  worn  for  Anne's 
sake,  and  as  a  memory  she  prized  it. 

Lord  Bridlington  watched  her  growing  happiness  as  he 
might  have  watched  that  of  his  own  child.  He  gloried  in 
the  radiance  of  her  beauty.  The  spark  of  happiness  glow- 
ing in  her  eyes  set  light  to  and  burned  in  his  heart.  Even 
his  wife  couldn't  laugh  at  him,  for  she  too  felt  with  him 
a  great  relief.  It  would  have  been  to  the  everlasting  shame 
of  Panslea  if  it  couldn't  have  made  Sally  happy. 

It  was  all  new  to  Sally — the  yacht,  the  gulls,  the  hills, 
the  sunsets,  the  wind-ruffled  waters  of  the  lochs,  the  driving 
mists.  She  loved  the  rainy  days  no  less  than  the  sunny 
days,  and  Lord  Bridlington  taught  her  to  fish,  and  the  old 
ghillie  untaught  her  all  she  had  learnt  from  his  lordship, 
who  knew  nothing — and  taught  her  all  over  again.  But  it 
was  the  Captain  who  would  be  teaching  her  himself,  and 
Sally  asked  who  the  Captain  was? 

It  was  a  frightful  risk ;  but  the  old  man  was  to  be  trusted. 
He  said  it  was  just  the  owner  of  the  place — the  laird — 
from  whom  the  lord  had  taken  the  fishing.  There  was 
fishing  for  both,  and  Sally  practised  casting  diligently  so 
that  she  should  not  be  disgraced  in  the  eyes  of  the  laird. 
She  asked  the  old  man  how  she  did  it.  And  he  said,  "It 
couldna  be  worrrse,"  and  no  doubt  he  was  right,  for  he  was 
learned  in  such  matters. 

Lord  Bridlington  prayed  night  and  day  that  the  name 

215 


216  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

of  the  owner  might  not  be  disclosed,  for  it  was  to  be  his 
surprise.  His  love  for  Sally  had  overridden  all  desires  of 
his  own  for  his  son  Jack.  He  had  been  told  that  Sally 
could  have  cared  for  Captain  Wentford,  and  she  was  to  be 
given  her  chance.  And  the  sun  shone  upon  the  plans  of 
Lord  Bridlington  and  upon  the  hair  of  Sally  as  she  sat 
on  the  bank  of  the  river,  and  all  would  have  been  well 
if  Lord  Bridlington  had  confided  in  his  wife,  which  all  wise 
men  should  do — sometimes,  at  all  events ;  and  the  sometimes 
with  him  should  have  been  this  time,  for  Lady  Bridlington 
had  other  plans  of  her  own,  all  innocently  made  for  the 
pleasing  of  her  dear  Thomas,  whom  she  had  hitherto  op- 
posed with  regard  to  the  marriage  of  Jack  and  Sally.  Now 
she  would  withdraw  her  opposition  and  work  hard  to  bring 
it  about. 

So  Captain  Wentford  walking  along  the  bank  of  the 
river  on  that  August  afternoon — bad  for  fishing,  but  good 
for  everything  else  in  God's  beautiful  world — was  against 
all  she  had  prayed  for  and  planned  since  she  had  set  sail 
in  the  yacht.  Her  maternal  heart  went  out  not  only  to 
Jack  in  the  future  but  to  Jimmy  in  the  past.  Sally  mustn't 
forget  Jimmy  until  she  could  forget  him  in  remembering 
Jack. 

Captain  Wentford  shouldn't  have  come  into  the  picture 
at  all;  but  he  stepped  right  into  the  very  middle  of  it,  and 
throwing  himself  down  in  the  foreground  found  himself 
sitting  beside  Sally  of  whom  he  had  been  thinking  for 
weeks.  Sally,  looking  up  from  examining  a  beautiful  piece 
of  purple  heather,  each  little  flower  of  which  was  wonder- 
ful in  its  perfection,  found  that  the  world  was  no  less 
wonderful  in  its  larger  and  more  perfect  way.  "You?" 
she  said,  and  he  said  "You?"  And  in  the  English  language 
there  can  be  no  word  more  tender,  if  said  as  Neil  Went- 
ford said  it,  and  as  Sally  would  have  said  it  had  she  dared. 
But  women  so  seldom  say  anything  quite  so  tenderly  as 
they  would  like  to  say  it,  because — well,  they  are  women, 
and  cannot.  But  Neil  Wentford  had  no  such  scruples,  and 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  217 

he  put  his  whole  soul  into  the  word.  He  was  surprised 
into  it — partly.  He  had  been  thinking  of  Sally  as  he 
walked  along  the  river-side,  because  he  was  always  think- 
ing of  her,  and  he  had  come  upon  her  sitting  on  the  bank 
of  the  river  he  had  loved  as  a  boy — had  loved  all  his  life. 
The  river  a  man  loves  and  the  woman  he  loves — what  more 
can  he  want? 

And  when  the  river  runs  at  his  feet  and  the  woman  sits 
at  his  side  he  is  hard  to  please  if  he  isn't  happy.  This  too 
was  the  Sally  he  had  met  in  London.  She  had  been  so 
friendly — so  adorable.  Then  she  had  left  London  sud- 
denly, and  to  a  letter  he  had  written  her  she  had  answered 
coldly,  had  begged  him  never  to  write  again.  But  this 
Sally  sitting  on  the  bank  beside  him  was  the  one  he  had 
first  met,  not  the  one  who  had  written.  He  asked  her  how 
she  had  come  there.  It  seemed  unlikely  that  she  had  fallen 
from  Heaven,  although  it  seemed  the  only  explanation. 
She  said  she  had  come  with  the  Bridlingtons,  that  Lord 
Bridlington  had  taken  a  "beat"  on  the  river.  Ought  she 
to  have  fished?  She  hadn't  caught  anything,  she  explained 
hurriedly.  Then  she  remembered  that  old  Donald  had  said 
the  Captain  would  teach  her.  Would  he?  And  Captain 
Wentford  gave  her  a  lesson  then  and  there. 

The  deliciousness  of  it  all — his  hand  on  hers.  That  was 
necessary — to  the  good  teaching!  Yes,  really  and  truly. 
She  was  a  pupil  just  quick  enough;  not  too  quick.  She 
couldn't  do  without  a  guiding  hand.  She  thought  she  could. 
He  knew  she  couldn't.  She  didn't  argue;  and  Lord  Brid- 
lington coming  to  find  her  saw  what  was  going  on  and  tip- 
toed away  over  the  heather,  and  behaved  as  absurdly  as 
Jaunty  would  have  behaved  could  he  have  seen  his  Miss 
Sally  with  the  hand  of  the  man  she  loved  on  hers. 

It  was  the  happiest  day  in  Sally's  life;  just  as  Scotland 
was  the  loveliest  country  in  the  world,  and  fishing  the  most 
wonderful  of  occupations. 

The  old  ghillie  had  withdrawn  to  a  distance,  and  as  he 
drew  at  his  pipe  his  old  face  wrinkled  up,  and  his  eyes 


218  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

blinked  to  the  sun.  His  thoughts  may  have  been  something 
of  the  same  kind  as  Neil  Wentford's — who  knows?  Any- 
how he  remembered  enough  to  prevent  him  making  any 
suggestions  as  to  what  flies  the  foolish  young  things  should 
use.  Let  the  Captain  fish  with  what  he  liked,  or  with  none, 
which  he  most  likely  was  doing  at  that  very  moment.  That 
a  fisherman  should  come  to  this  was  grievous;  but  a  fisher- 
man was  a  man  for  all  that — they  must  all  come  to  it 
sooner  or  later.  It  was  best  to  get  it  over  before  the  spring 
fishing,  when  all  a  man's  attention  must  be  given  to  the 
fish.  Many  a  spring  fish  had  been  caught  and  lost  since 
he  had  got  it  well  over.  .  .  . 

Neil  asked  Sally  if  she  were  tired,  and  she  said  her  arm 
ached  a  little,  and  for  a  second  he  held  her  wrist  and  was 
surprised  at  its  slenderness.  He  laid  the  rod  on  the  bank 
and  they  sat  down,  and  a  little  bunch  of  heather  fell  from 
Sally's  belt.  He  picked  it  up  and  put  it  in  his  buttonhole. 
"May  I  keep  it?"  he  asked. 

And  Sally  laughed.  %  "Who  do  you  want  it  for?"  she 
asked,  knowing  quite  well. 

"For  the  woman  I  love  best  in  the  world,"  he  answered, 
which  was  unexpected.  "I  shall  never  give  it  to  any  one 
but  the  woman  I  have  loved  best  in  the  world — if  I  give  it 
to  any  one." 

"Is  she  very  charming?"  asked  Sally,  tugging  at  a  root 
of  heather. 

"Very  charming." 

"And  beautiful,  I  suppose?"  she  ventured — she  was  ter- 
ribly unmodern. 

"And — beautiful,"  admitted  Neil.  He  looked  at  Sally. 
She  bent  her  head  and  stretching  out  her  hand  picked  an- 
other bit  of  heather.  "Here's  another  bit  just  as  beauti- 
ful," she  said. 

"Another  bit  of  heather  is  very  easy  to  get — but  I  doubt 
that  it's  as  beautiful." 

"And  clever?"  asked  Sally. 

"The  heather?" 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  219 

"No — who  we  were  talking  about." 

"Very  clever — in  understanding,  and  in  everything  that 
most  matters." 

"Young?"  asked  Sally,  stripping  the  stalk  of  its  little 
flowers. 

"You  funny  child.  .  .  .  What  does  age  matter?" 

To  Sally  it  mattered  enormously — more  than  anything 
at  the  moment  in  the  wide  world. 

"My  mother/'  said  Neil,  "couldn't  be  very  young — not 
very  young."  And  the  evening  became  of  a  sudden  all 
purple  and  gold — and  Sally  laughed.  Neil  asked  if  it 
wasn't  beautiful — the  golden  light?  And  Sally  said  it 
was  always  like  that  in  Scotland ;  and  he  said  he  had  never 
seen  it  quite  so  beautiful,  and  he  looked  at  her  and  she 
understood  in  a  way  that  would  have  puzzled  Jaunty.  He 
would  have  said,  How  could  she  understand  that  the  man 
meant  she  was  beautiful  when  he  most  certainly  referred 
to  the  scenery?  Sally  turned  her  head  away  so  that  Neil 
should  not  see  how  well  she  understood,  and  she  thought 
she  could  hide  the  blush  that  burnt  her  cheek.  But  she 
was  not  quick  enough ;  she  couldn't  have  been  quick  enough, 
however  quick  she  had  been,  because  he  knew  it  was  there 
— he  had  meant  it  to  be  there. 

"Look  at  me,"  he  said,  and  she  turned  her  face  to  his, 
and  in  one  moment  he  would  have  known  the  truth  and 
nothing  could  have  shaken  his  belief;  but  before  that  mo- 
ment came  Lord  Bridlington  appeared  to  ask  Wentford  to 
dine  on  the  yacht,  and  both  Neil  and  Sally  forgave  him 
because  of  the  message  he  bore.  Lord  Bridlington  had 
great  faith  in  moonlight  and  water.  He  was  old-fashioned 
enough  to  believe  few  men  could  stand  against  it.  Sally 
went  back  to  the  yacht  in  a  dream  of  bewildered  happiness 
— the  launch  cutting  the  golden  waters — and  she  waved  to 
the  man  standing  on  the  shore. 

He  came  to  dinner;  and  after  dinner  Lady  Bridlington 
asked  Sally  to  fetch  her  a  lace  scarf,  it  was  chilly.  And 
when  Sally  was  gone  Lady  Bridlington  took  the  opportunity 


220  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

of  telling  Neil  Wentford  that  Sally  was  so  wonderfully 
better — that  her  engagement  to  Mr.  Beech,  and  his  death — 
so  tragically  sudden — had  been  a  terrible  thing  for  the  poor 
child — but  she  was  better — much  better.  .  .  .  "Don't  you 
think  she  is  looking  very  well?"  she  asked. 

And  Neil  said  she  seemed  to  him  to  be  looking  very 
well. 

"And  so  pretty?"  said  Lady  Bridlington. 

"And  so  pretty/'  he  agreed. 

Sally  came  back  with  the  scarf.  Neil  Wentford  looked 
at  her  long  and  earnestly.  If  he  had  but  seen  the  look 
she  would  have  given  him  by  the  river,  he  need  never  have 
looked  again  to  learn  what  he  wanted  to  know.  Now  it  was 
a  bewildered  Sally  who  met  his  stern  gaze,  and  she  told  him 
nothing  of  what  he  wanted  to  know.  She  looked  from  him 
to  Lady  Bridlington — from  Lady  Bridlington  to  him.  Lord 
Bridlington  called  to  his  wife  and  she  went,  and  Sally  was 
left  with  Neil  Wentford.  "May  I  smoke?"  he  asked. 

"Of  course,"  she  said.     "Why  not?" 

"Why  not  that  as  well  as  anything  else?"  and  he  smoked 
and  said  nothing. 

"How  dark  the  hills  look,"  said  Sally,  feeling  that  some 
one  must  speak — and  it  is  always  the  woman  who  speaks. 

"Very  dark — a  storm  coming,  I  think.  They  come  up 
suddenly  in  this  part  of  the  world." 

And  again  they  sat  in  silence.  At  last  he  said  he  must 
be  going.  "I  only  came  north  to-day,  and  I  have  so  much 
to  do.  Will  you  say  good-night  to  the  Bridlingtons  for 
me?" 

Sally  nodded. 

"Perhaps — you  may  wonder,"  he  hesitated;  "I'm  not 
very  good  at  expressing  myself.  I'm  so  sorry — you  have 
had  such  a  sorrow.  I  didn't  know — or  of  course  I 
wouldn't  .  .  ." 

"Don't,  please  don't!"  cried  Sally,  and  imploringly  she 
held  out  her  hand. 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  221 

He  took  it  and  held  it.  "You  understand?"  he  asked, 
releasing  it.  "I  didn't  know." 

She  nodded. 

"And  the  heather,  may  I  keep  it?" 

She  nodded  again. 

"I  will  send  it  to  the  woman  I  love  best  in  the  world. 
Good-night — good-bye,"  and  he  stepped  down  into  the 
launch  and  away  he  went  down  the  pathway  of  silver — 
into  the  darkness,  and  was  lost  to  sight.  Sally  went  to 
bed. 

Two  hours  later  Lord  Bridlington,  thinking  the  young 
people  had  been  alone  long  enough  for  even  the  modern 
man  to  make  up  his  mind,  came  to  find  them,  and  he  found 
no  one;  but  he  was  told  Captain  Wentford  had  gone  two 
hours  back,  soon  after  dinner.  Lord  Bridlington  went  to 
his  wife  a  sad  and  perplexed  man.  She  could  offer  him  no 
comfort,  and  was  afraid  to  offer  an  explanation. 


XXIII 

SALLY  went  back  to  Panslea,  and  she  looked  no  happier 
than  she  had  looked  when  she  went  away.  Jaunty  watched 
her,  and  he  knew  things  were  wrong.  He  must  wait.  He 
had  faith — to  his  faith  he  must  add  patience. 

If  he  waited  long  enough  he  must  find  out.  He  waited, 
and  Sally  got  a  letter.  Now  was  his  chance.  He  watched 
her.  She  hid  the  letter  instead  of  reading  it.  That  was 
significant.  Jaunty  must  know  who  the  letter  was  from, 
and  when  he  knew  who  it  was  from,  he  must  know  what  it 
said.  It  was  the  clue  he  wanted. 

A  few  hours  later  Sally's  eyes  were  red  with  crying, 
which  was  more  than  he  could  stand.  His  moral  sense 
ceased  to  exist.  He  determined  to  do  what  no  one  has  any 
right  to  do — neither  father  nor  mother,  nor  brother  nor 
sister,  and  certainly  no  butler — however  bad  a  butler  he 
may  chance  to  be.  He  determined  to  read  that  letter.  The 
intention  was  his;  but  he  was  saved  committing  the  actual 
sin  by  the  puppy  taking  it  upon  himself.  He  came  to 
Jaunty,  and  lying  down  at  his  feet,  lifted  pathetic,  loving 
eyes,  and  swallowed  as  best  he  could,  but  the  paper  in  his 
mouth  made  it  difficult. 

"Drop  it,"  said  Jaunty,  and  the  puppy  dropped  it.  It 
was  a  letter;  that  Jaunty  saw  at  once.  And  as  any  letter 
might  at  such  a  time  as  this  be  the  one  he  was  looking 
for,  he  read  it.  Having  read  it,  he  sat  down.  The  beating 
of  his  heart  frightened  him.  He  had  never  read  such  a 
letter,  nor  had  he  credited  any  man  with  the  power  to 
write  it.  He  had  underrated  the  force  of  love.  That  his 
Miss  Sally  should  receive  such  a  letter  .  .  .  ! 

Hearing  her  coming  he  replaced  the  letter  between  the 
paws  of  the  puppy,  dared  him  to  move,  and  when  she  came 

222 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  223 

into  the  room  he  said  quite  calmly,  "Will  you  take  that 
paper,  miss?  It's  bad  for  the  puppy — bad  for  his  diges- 
tion, bad  for  his  morals — he  takes  things  out  of  the  waste- 
paper  basket."  Jaunty  knew  the  puppy  hadn't  taken  this 
letter  from  there.  Sally  pounced  upon  the  puppy  and 
seized  the  letter  she  had  lost,  and  had  been  looking  for, 
and  was  thankful  Jaunty  hadn't  seen  it. 

But  Jaunty  had  read  it,  and  it  was  the  first  love-letter 
he  had  ever  read,  and  if  had  opened  to  him  the  gates  of  a 
new  world.  He  had  let  Miss  Pamela  marry,  when  he  hadn't 
even  known  of  the  existence  of  a  love  like  this.  He  had 
robbed  her  of  her  right.  This  was  a  love  of  which  poets 
wrote,  except  that  it  sacrificed  nothing  to  rhyme — and  it 
was  reasonable.  What  could  his  Miss  Sally  say  to  such  a 
letter?  How  would  she  answer  it?  She  couldn't  refuse  a 
love  like  this,  and  yet  she  wouldn't  know  what  to  say  and 
he  couldn't  help  her.  He  couldn't  consult  Mr.  Lawrence 
because  love  was  a  subject  on  which  he  would  not  have 
Mr.  Lawrence  dwell,  because  of  the  memories  it  must 
arouse  in  his  heart. 

If  the  letter  had  made  Miss  Sally  happy  she  would  not 
have  cried.  She  must  have  cried  because  she  could  not 
answer  the  letter  as  she  would  like  to  answer  it.  Jaunty 
would  see  that  the  answer  was  what  it  ought  to  be.  He 
waited  until  she  wrote  it.  Then  when  she  went  to  post  it 
herself,  he  followed  her. 

"Miss,"  he  said,  "the  grass  is  wet.  I  will  post  .  .  ."  and 
when  she  answered,  "No,  thank  you,  Jaunty,  I  will  post 
it  myself,"  he  said  "Miss  Sally!"  in  such  a  voice  that  the 
past  years  were  as  nothing,  and  she  was  in  a  pinafore 
again,  with  socks  and  bare  legs  and  bruised  knees,  and 
obediently  she  handed  the  letter  to  him. 

"It's  very  important,"  she  faltered. 

He  said  he  would  see  to  it.  He  walked  to  the  post  office, 
read  all  about  the  recruits  His  Majesty  wanted;  all  the 
advantages  offered;  then  slipped  the  letter  into  his  pocket, 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

and  went  back  and  asked  Mr.  Lawrence  if  he  might  go  up 
to  London  to  see  his  sister. 

"Don't  ask  me,  Jaunty;  of  course.  I  have  told  you  over 
and  over  again — you  are  perfectly  independent.  Please 
don't  do  it  again." 

There  was  one  thing  that  had  rankled  in  Jaunty's  mind 
since  the  reading  of  the  illuminating  letter,  and  that  was 
his  attitude  towards  Matilda.  Had  he  misjudged  her? 
Had  such  a  letter  as  this  deceived  her  ?  Was  it  in  response 
to  such  a  letter  as  this  that  she  had  yielded?  Jaunty  was 
distressed.  He  had  despised  Matilda,  and  Matilda  per- 
haps had  inspired  poetry.  Before  he  went  to  London  he 
went  upstairs  to  what  was  called  "the  workroom"  (he  had 
always  thought  it  was  little  work  that  was  done  there).  He 
knocked  at  the  door — a  voice  said  "Come  in,"  and  he  went 
in.  At  a  table  in  the  window  sat  Matilda.  The  outline 
of  her  figure  was  austere.  On  the  table  before  her  were 
three  photographs.  One  she  held  out  at  arm's  length,  and 
she  was  gazing  at  it  as  Jaunty  came  in. 

"What  are  you  looking  at?"  he  asked. 

"I  am  looking  to  see  which  I  like  best — this  one  of  Miss 
Pamela,  or  this  one  of  Miss  Sally." 

"Or  this  one  of ?"  said  Jaunty. 

Matilda  turned  the  third  photograph  face  downwards 
and  put  her  hand  over  it.  "That's  mine,  Mr.  Jaunty." 

"Ah,  Matilda,  Matilda,  the  years  are  passing,  and  we 
might  have  been  better  friends." 

Matilda  looked  at  Jaunty,  then  said  gruffly,  "I'm  willing, 
enough,"  and  she  turned  the  photograph  face  up  and  with- 
drew her  hand.  Jaunty  saw  the  likeness  of  a  very  ugly 
baby,  improperly  clothed. 

"Poor  Matilda,"  he  said  gently,  "the  grandchild  will  be 
a  solace  to  us  both  in  our  old  age." 

Then  he  went  to  London;  but  not  to  see  his  sister, 
because  he  had  only  time  to  drive  across  London  and  catch 
a  train  from  Paddington.  Sally's  letter  lay  next  his  heart, 
which  was  beating  very  unevenly. 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  225 

In  a  garden  which  must  be  the  embodiment  of  the  dreams 
of  most  of  us  walked  an  elderly  woman  with  her  son. 
Jaunty  was  making  for  that  garden.  The  mother  and  son 
walked  on  a  grass  path  between  borders  of  autumn  flowers 
— old-fashioned  flowers — and  they  talked  softly  of  some- 
thing very  near  to  the  hearts  of  both.  The  son  was  careful 
to  walk  as  slowly  as  his  mother  wished  to  walk;  she  was 
anxious  to  walk  as  quickly  as  he  could  walk,  and  they  both 
laughed  over  it.  She  at  his  gentleness  because  she  loved 
it;  he  at  her  impetuosity  because  he  loved  her.  But  they 
grew  serious  as  they  walked,  and  they  talked  earnestly. 

"You  thought  she  cared?"  asked  his  mother,  suiting  her 
steps  to  his. 

"I  was  quite  certain  of  it,  at  first;  then  things  went 
wrong.  But  afterwards  .  ,  ." 

"And  now?" 

"You  have  heard  what  I  was  told." 

"You  heard  it  on  good  authority?" 

"From  one  who  knows  her  intimately." 

"You  think  she  cannot  be  grieving  perhaps  from  a  sense 
of  remorse?" 

"How  could  she?" 

"Ah,  my  dear,  my  dear,  girls — young  girls — do  strange 
things  from  a  sense  of  imagined  duty.  You  have  the  gift 
of  spoiling  women,"  she  pressed  his  arm  gently,  "but  I 
doubt  that  you  understand  them." 

"There  can  hardly  be  room  for  misunderstanding  here — 
she  was  engaged,  or  she  was  not  engaged.  If  I  am  certain 
she  "was  .  .  .?" 

"I  should  still  be  certain  she  wasn't." 

"Because  you  think,  dearest,  that  all  women  must  feel 
for  me  as  you  do  .  .  ." 

"One  woman  must,  dear.  It  is  said  there  is  jealousy 
in  the  hearts  of  most  women  in  their  love  for  their  sons; 
but  mine  is  a  jealousy  that  would  gain  for  you  the  woman 
you  love — not  keep  her  from  you.  Tell  me,  what  kind  of 
a  woman  is  she?" 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

And  the  son  spoke  as  foolishly  perhaps  as  ever  son  spoke 
to  any  mother,  and  the  mother's  eyes  filled  with  tears  at 
his  words,  so  tender  was  his  folly.  Could  any  woman  live 
up  to  this  ideal?  Could  Sally  be  all  this — all  he  demanded 
of  her?  She  must  indeed  be  a  wonderful  child-woman, 
which,  of  course,  she  was. 

"She  would  love  you,  mother."  Tenderest  of  all  flatter- 
ies, this ! 

"I  hope  so,  my  son.  I  love  her  already,  both  for  her 
own  sake  and  for  the  sake  of  that  dear  mother  who  had  to 
leave  such  a  child." 

"They  say  she  was  wonderful." 

"And  the  father?" 

"He  is  very  unlike  other  people." 

"Not  too  much  unlike,  I  hope?"  said  the  mother,  not 
without  worldly  wisdom. 

"Well,  the  world  would  be  a  better  place  if  there  were 
more  like  him." 

"Ah,  that's  all  I  wanted  to  know. — And  you  have  written 
to  the  child,  as  I  asked  you  to  do?" 

"As  you  asked  me  to — I  did." 

"You  wrote  very  kindly,  tenderly — ready  to  believe  and 
to  understand?" 

"I  am  ready  to  believe." 

"Then  some  day — Sally  will  walk  in  this  garden  and  she 
will  love  it." 

"Mother,  why  do  you  say  that?" 

"Because,  I  see  her,  that's  why.  I  see  her  quite  plainly. 
Tall  and  straight — divinely  fair — tell  me  if  I  am  wrong. 
Fair,  and  she  holds  me  up  in  her  arms — her  strong,  young 
arms — as  I  grow  old  and  feeble,  and  she  humours  me  so 
sweetly.  She  begs  me  to  tell  her  all  about  you,  Neil,  when 
you  were  a  boy,  and  I  tell  her  everything  I  can  remember, 
and  much  more;  and  I  talk  on  and  on,  Sally  listening  with 
bent  head  and  a  smile  on  her  lips — till  the  shadows  grow 
long  in  the  garden,  and  the  yew  hedges  are  black  in  the 
twilight,  and  the  birds  go  to  rest,  and  your  old  mother 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  227 

falls  asleep,  and  you  and  Sally  bid  me  good-night — a  ten- 
der good-night  ..." 

"My  dear,  darling  mother!" 

And  his  mother  laughed.     "Who  is  that,  Neil?" 

Over  the  grass  towards  them  walked  an  old  man.  "See 
what  he  wants,  dear,"  she  said,  resenting  the  intrusion. 
And  Neil  went  across  the  grass  towards  Jaunty. 

"Captain  Wentford?"  asked  Jaunty,  baring  his  head  and 
standing  among  the  flowers  as  old-fashioned  as  himself. 

"Yes,  I'm  Captain  Wentford.  I  don't  think  I  know 
you." 

"Not  yet,  sir — but  I  would  like  to  speak  to  you." 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

Jaunty  said  he  must  ask  to  see  him  alone — he  was 
sorry. 

"Dear  Neil,  I  will  go,"  and  Mrs.  Wentford  left  them. 

Captain  Wentford  asked  Jaunty  to  sit  down;  but  he  pre- 
ferred to  stand.  "I  am  Jaunty,  sir,"  he  said,  "butler — not 
exactly  butler — in  the  family  of  Mr.  Lawrence." 

"Jaunty!"  exclaimed  Captain  Wentford,  "I'm  delighted 
to  see  you — of  course  I  have  heard  of  you,"  and  Jaunty 
found  his  hand  clasped  fast  in  the  hand  of  this  tall,  bronzed 
soldier;  in  the  hand  that  had  held  the  pen — in  the  hand 
that  had  written  that  stupendous  love-letter — in  the  hand 
of  Miss  Sally's  lover. 

"Sir,  sir — I  am  overcome  by  your  kindness.  I  have 
brought  you  a  letter  from  Miss  Sally." 

"She  sent  you?" 

"No,  sir,  I  came.  I  ask  you  to  read  this  letter  in  my 
presence — I  ask  you  when  you  have  read  it  to  tell  me  .  .  ." 

"What  right  have  you  to  ask  this?" 

"The  right  love  gives.  Sir,  I  demand  the  right.  I  am 
old — you  cannot  disappoint  me." 

Captain  Wentford  took  Sally's  letter,  and  walking  away 
left  Jaunty  alone.  He  stood  there  in  the  midst  of  the 
flowers.  He  had  dared  much.  Was  he  to  have  dared  in 
vain? 


228  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

A  gentle  voice  said,  "Have  you  brought  good  or  bad 
news  ?" 

Jaunty  turned  and  found  Mrs.  Wentford  beside  him. 
He  reverenced  her  beauty  and  goodness.  He  recognised  it 
— the  same  goodness  that  had  been  his  lady's,  the  same 
gentleness.  "I  cannot  say,  ma'am.  I  have  brought  a  letter 
from  my  young  lady." 

"You  do  not  know  what  it  says?" 

"I  do  not,  ma'am;  but  I  have  good  reason  to  think  that 
what  it  says  is  not  the  truth — and  I  have  come  to  enforce 
right." 

"She  cares,  then?"  asked  Mrs.  Wentford,  wondering 
greatly  that  she  could  ask  the  question  of  a  stranger;  but 
the  stranger  was  so  simple  an  old  man,  he  spoke  with  such 
conviction.  "She  cares?"  she  repeated. 

"She  most  certainly  cares,  ma'am;  she  was  grieving  for 
another,  from  a  sense  of  duty  .  .  ." 

"Ah !"  said  Mrs.  Wentford,  "I  said  so." 

"It  takes  the  old — I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,  the  older 
— to  understand  the  young.  From  a  sense  of  loving  duty, 
she  grieved.  It  is  Miss  Sally's  way  to  share  a  sorrow — 
and  all  the  while  she  has  a  sorrow  of  her  own  greater  than 
she  can  bear." 

Mrs.  Wentford  asked  in  what  relationship  Jaunty  stood 
to  Mr.  Lawrence. 

"Butler,  ma'am;  not  butler  exactly — confidential  but- 
ler .  .  ." 

"Most  confidential." 

"Yes,  ma'am;"  and  Jaunty  heard  Mrs.  Lawrence's  voice 
saying  those  very  words.  "She  gave  the  children  into  my 
care,"  he  added. 

"And  you  have  cared  for  them  devotedly?" 

"I  have  done  what  I  could,"  he  said  simply. 

"My  son  is  coming,"  said  Mrs.  Wentford.  She  left  the 
two  together. 

"There  is  nothing  to  wait  for,"  said  Captain  Wentford. 

"There  is  everything  to  wait  for.    The  letter  says  .  .  ." 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  229 

"It  is  quite  impossible  I  should  tell  you  what  the  letter 
says." 

"Then  it  becomes  my  duty  to  tell  you.  Miss  Sally  says 
she  was  engaged  to  another;  she  was  not.  For  the  sake  of 
one  she  loved  she  allowed  her  to  think  so — that  one  was  the 
sister  of  the  poor  young  man.  It  was  the  only  way  she 
thought  she  could  show  her  sympathy.  It  was  not  a  wise 
way;  but  where  love  is  concerned  Miss  Sally  is  not  wise. 
Now,  sir,  it  lies  with  you.  If  you  choose  to  resent  the  in- 
terference of  an  old  man,  you  can  go  your  way  and  forget 
all  about  Miss  Sally — that  she  loved  you — and,  please  God, 
in  time  she  too  will  forget  it.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  you 
forgive  the  old  man  for  the  love  he  bears  the  child,  then 
when  Panslea  thinks  it  right  that  she  should  be  better,  you 
will  come  back.  But  you  must  remember  that  Panslea  is 
old-fashioned.  Panslea  has  given  its  heart  to  Miss  Sally; 
its  heart  has  been  wounded  by  her  sorrow,  it  must  be  al- 
lowed to  heal,  from  the  inside.  Miss  Anne  must  be  con- 
sidered— the  memory  of  Mr.  Beech  must  be  considered. 
But,  sir,  the  child  can  wait  with  hope — but  you  must  say 
nothing — for  she  is  no  actress,  and  Panslea  would  know 
by  the  very  joy  in  her  face." 

"But  how  will  she  know  if  I  say  nothing?" 

"By  my  face,  sir !  She  will  look  at  me  and  she  will  say, 
'Jaunty  could  not  look  so  happy  if  I  were  not  happy.' 
She  has  looked  to  me  all  her  life  for  happiness." 

"Then  when  shall  I  come?" 

"June,  sir,  is  her  happiest  time — she  is  at  her  best  in 
June.  She  is  a  little  freckled  later.  The  winter  will  be 
dark,  sir,  but  there  is  Panslea  to  be  thought  of.  Panslea 
is  behind  the  times — and  we  must  keep  pace  with  Panslea." 

"And  shall  I  not  write?" 

"Would  you  naturally  answer  the  letter?" 

Captain  Wentford  said  there  was  no  answer  to  the  let- 
ter in  ordinary  circumstances. 

And  Neil  Wentford  went  back  to  his  mother,  and  they 


230  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

walked  in  the  garden  till  the  shadows  grew  long  at  their 
feet,  and  the  yew  hedges  rose  black  in  the  twilight,  and 
the  birds  went  to  their  rest  in  the  branches  of  the  trees. 
"It  will  be  difficult  to  wait,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Wentford. 


XXIV 

Now  all  this  will  be  said  to  be  very  unnatural — that  it 
could  never  have  happened.  But  how  does  any  one  know 
what  might  happen  if  they  had  a  Jaunty  of  their  own  to 
deal  with?  I  am  willing  to  admit  that  no  nurse  would 
have  done  all  he  did;  she  would  have  known  her  place 
better.  No  aunt  would  have  done  it,  because  she  couldn't 
have  made  her  niece  cheap.  But  with  a  Jaunty  it  was 
different.  He  had  promised  Mrs.  Lawrence — or  he  thought 
she  had  exacted  the  promise  from  him  in  that  dying  look 
she  gave  him — to  take  care  of  her  children,  and  nothing 
would  stop  him;  certainly  no  idle  convention. 

So  back  to  Panslea  he  went  with  a  lighter  heart  than 
he  had  known  for  months,  and  Sally  meeting  him  said, 
"Why,  Jaunty,  what  is  it?" 

"Till  June,  miss;  till  June!" 

"You  haven't  said  anything,  Jaunty — not  told  any  one?" 

"Is  it  likely,  miss?  Till  June;  you  can  be  brave  till 
then?" 

And  she  promised  to  be  brave.  June,  anyway,  was  worth 
waiting  for,  and  every  day  she  looked  braver  and  in 
Jaunty's  eyes  more  beautiful.  And  Panslea  approved  her 
brave  spirit,  and  one  said  to  the  other,  "Perhaps  some  day 
she  will  learn  to  love  another,"  and  the  suggestion  was  not 
resented;  and  in  time  from  a  suggestion  it  grew  into  a 
prayer — a  prayer  that  was  answered  before  it  was 
breathed. 

Jaunty  found  the  hammer  and  nails  and  put  them  inside 
the  case  of  the  grandfather  clock,  so  that  he  could  find 
them  at  any  time.  He  hesitated  to  nail  down  the  rug  be- 
cause Panslea  might  wonder  why  it  never  slipped,  which 
would  entail  explanations,  and  that  would  never  do.  Jaunty 

231 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

was  as  old-fashioned  in  some  things  as  he  was  in  others. 
His  mind  and  Miss  Eleanor's  mind  were  of  the  same  think- 
ing with  regard  to  our  advent  into  this  strange  world  of 
ours.  It  was  a  thing  no  nice-minded  person  would  mention 
until  it  was  a  fact  accomplished.  Once  there,  Jaunty  ap- 
proved of  the  fact,  and  Miss  Eleanor  was  ready  to  paint 
it — especially  if  it  chose  hurriedly  to  leave  the  world  into 
which  it  had  so  mysteriously  entered. 

Anne  Beech  lived  from  Monday  morning  till  Saturday 
afternoon,  and  Jaunty  knew  why.  He  was  glad  of  it.  He 
liked  Miss  Beech  and  he  had  nothing  to  say  against  Mr. 
Mason  except  that  he  was  Miss  Mason's  brother,  but  he 
was  just  enough  to  know  that  wasn't  his  fault. 

Lord  and  Lady  Bridlington  made  much  of  Sally.  Lady 
Bridlington  could  not  do  enough.  She  was  quite  as  foolish 
as  he  had  been.  Sally  had  now  two  armchairs  in  every 
cottage  whether  they  were  deserved  or  not. 

Lord  Bridlington  couldn't  refuse  her  anything  because 
her  eyes  had  grown  so  large.  Lady  Bridlington  said  they 
had  always  been  that.  She  couldn't  forget  Sally's  eyes 
that  night  on  the  yacht  when  Neil  Wentford  had  looked  at 
her.  They  haunted  Lady  Bridlington.  And  at  last  she 
summoned  up  her  courage  and  wrote  to  Neil  Wentford,  and 
told  him  she  wasn't  quite  sure  she  had  been  right  about 
a  certain  person's  engagement.  But  nothing  happened,  and 
she  grew  more  and  more  unhappy — and  thinner;  that  was 
the  bright  lining  to  her  cloud.  And  she  went  on  being 
unhappy — slightly  unhappy. 

Mr.  Masters,  once  the  desire  for  stained-glass  windows 
and  screens  had  possessed  him — and  seeing  them  almost 
within  sight — began  to  strike  out  in  other  lines  so  as  to  be 
worthy  of  the  stained-glass  windows  and  carven  screens. 
Panslea  was  alarmed.  He  ventured  to  suggest  Choral  Com- 
munion and  Panslea  was  terrified,  shaken  to  its  founda- 
tions. Old  Summers  who  had  sung  in  the  choir  for  fifty 
years  had  never  heard  tell  of  it — he  for  one  was  against 
it,  and  would  rather  resign  than  consent,  and  all  of  his 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  233 

age  and  standing  followed  him;  and  they  and  his  children 
and  grandchildren  made  a  goodly  following. 

In  a  very  short  time  Panslea  was  in  a  state  of  revolution. 
Anne  Beech  did  all  she  could  to  soothe  and  pacify.  Mr. 
Lawrence  talked  to  Mr.  Masters,  putting  it  to  him  gently 
yet  forcibly,  that  it  wasn't  whether  there  was  harm  or  not 
in  a  thing;  it  was  rather  whether  a  thing  perfectly  right 
and  good  in  itself  did  harm  by  keeping  people  away  from 
church.  Mr.  Masters  said  it  was  a  matter  of  teaching — 
those  who  rebelled  must  stay  away  until  they  had  learned. 

Mr.  Lawrence  suggested  that  old  Summers  was  too  old 
to  learn.  Old  Summers  sang  out  of  tune.  "Ah,  that  is 
another  thing/'  admitted  Mr.  Lawrence. 

"Another  reason/'  said  Mr.  Masters,  "why  we  should  be 
glad  to  get  rid  of  him."  There  was  much  talking  and  little 
doing.  Mr.  Masters  went  one  day  to  see  Mrs.  Hill.  He 
thought  very  highly  of  Mrs.  Hill.  Although  they  might 
not  see  alike  in  all  things,  there  was  no  denying  she  was  a 
very  good  and  spiritual  woman.  He  foresaw  little  diffi- 
culty; she  was  just.  He  felt  he  could  convince  her.  He 
went  up  the  steep  hill  to  the  farm  with  hope  high  in  his 
heart.  She  welcomed  him,  she  bade  him  enter,  she  asked 
him  to  sit  down;  he  begged  her  to  sit  down,  and  they  both 
sat  down. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Hill/'  he  said,  "I  am  going  to  appeal  to  you 
— to  your  good  sense — to  your  sense  of  justice,"  and  he  laid 
the  whole  matter  before  her. 

She  sat  with  her  hands  folded  and  she  listened,  her  head 
bent.  "Admirably  submissive,"  thought  Mr.  Masters,  and 
when  he  had  finished  he  asked  her  what  she  thought.  Was 
he  right  or  was  old  Summers  right  about  the  Choral 
Service? 

Mrs.  Hill  thought  a  moment,  then  said  very  gently,  "If 
one  of  your  children  came  to  you,  sir,  to  ask  you  for  some- 
thing he  wanted  very  much — would  he  sing?"  and  Mr. 
Masters  went  his  way  not  nearly  as  vexed  and  disappointed 
as  he  felt  he  ought  to  have  been;  and  peace  descended  on 


234  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

Panslea,  and  Summers  went  on  singing  in  the  choir,  and  he 
sang  no  more  in  tune  than  he  had  done  before;  but,  as  he 
said,  he  sang  to  God  not  to  the  congregation.  It  did  not 
make  the  pain  of  the  musical  proportion  of  the  congrega- 
tion any  the  less;  but  they  had  this  to  console  them,  Sum- 
mers grew  no  younger  as  the  days  went  by.  When  his 
grandchildren  are  grown  up  they  may  have  learned  differ- 
ently— and  Panslea  with  them.  It  is  perhaps  a  matter  of 
teaching.  The  question  is,  From  whom  does  Mrs.  Hill 
learn? 

Panslea  knew  full  well  that  if  God  willed  it  so,  old 
Summers  would  sing  in  tune  in  the  next  world.  Janet  went 
so  far  as  to  say  it  could  have  been  done  in  this  one,  because 
she  had  heard  of  some  girl  who  had  been  taught  to  sing  in 
tune  by  suggestion — who  naturally  could  not  sing  one  note 
in  tune.  Panslea  shook  its  head.  It  was  no  use  suggesting 
anything  to  old  Summers. 


XXV 

IT  was  a  proud  day  for  Jaunty  when  he  was  bidden  to 
London  to  see  Pamela's  baby.  He  resented  a  little  the  fact 
that  it  was  Pamela's,  and  not  some  one  else's,  which  was  a 
little  hard  on  Pamela.  Jaunty  put  his  hand  to  his  heart  to 
see  how  it  bore  the  excitement.  If  his  heart  stood  this  one, 
wouldn't  it  perhaps  stand  another  greater?  So  often  did 
he  put  his  hand  to  his  heart  during  the  journey  to  London 
that  a  kind  old  lady  sitting  opposite  him  leant  forward  and 
asked  him  if  he  were  suffering.  Jaunty  said  not  suffering 
from  anything  more  than  a  very  natural  excitement. 

"But  that  shouldn't  hurt,"  she  said.  Jaunty  said  it 
didn't. 

Finding  the  old  lady  kind  and  seeing  her  interested,  he 
told  her  the  whole  story  of  his  life  since  he  had  lived  with 
Mr.  Lawrence — at  least,  he  meant  to  tell  her  all,  but  the 
train  went  too  fast  and  the  miles  were  too  few,  and  by  the 
time  London  was  reached  the  old  lady  knew  only  half  the 
charm  and  beauty  of  Sally  and  nothing  of  Mademoiselle. 
So  when  she  went  to  look  after  her  luggage  Jaunty  fol- 
lowed her  with  offer  of  help,  and  said,  "I  forgot  to  mention 
the  partially  paralysed  French  lady  Mr.  Lawrence  fetched 
from  London  to  teach  Miss  Sally  French — a  most  excellent 
and  good  woman." 

"Thank  you,  thank  you;  I  am  so  glad  to  know — not 
wholly  paralysed,"  said  the  old  lady.  "I  hope  your  good 
brave  heart  will  keep  going  well  and  strong  for  many  a 
long  day. — Yes,  dear,  it's  all  here,  thank  you." 

The  "dear"  was  a  slip,  and  it  came  as  a  shock  to  Jaunty, 
but  it  meant  of  course  that  the  old  lady  belonged  to  a  large 
family,  and  he  felt  that  if  he  had  lacked  restraint  she 
had  gone  a  step  further  in  calling  him  "dear." 

235 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

Arrived  at  Mr.  Monk's  house  Jaunty  detected  signs  of 
excitement  in  the  butler's  manner.  "All  well?"  he  asked, 
his  heart  playing  him  tricks  all  the  time. 

"All  well,"  answered  the  butler  with  the  grave  reas- 
surance of  one  who  has  been  through  it — and  knows. 

"Why  didn't  you  say  so,"  said  Jaunty  snappily,  "instead 
of  standing  there?"  and  the  butler  was  offended  and 
handed  him  over  to  the  footman,  who  murmured  something 
about  "as  well  as  could  be  expected  under  the  circum- 
stances." Then  he  rang  a  bell  and  said  unnecessary  things 
up  a  speaking-tube.  As  if  Mrs.  Monk  wouldn't  let  Jaunty 
see  the  baby  without  all  this  trouble !  Had  she  ever  caught 
a  trout  that  she  hadn't  brought  straight  to  him  knowing 
that  it  would  lose  nothing  in  the  weighing?  .  .  . 

Jaunty  saw  the  baby — and  he  didn't  see  the  baby  because 
of  the  mist  of  tears  that  was  in  his  eyes.  He  straightway 
forgave  Pamela  all  things — remembering  no  more  the  sins 
of  her  youth — they  were  all  forgotten  as  a  dream.  All  that 
mattered  was  this  scrap  of  masculine  humanity.  "Miss 
Sally's  nephew,"  he  murmured;  "Her  grandchild,  and  She 
so  young  herself  .  .  ." 

"The  mother?    Yes,"  said  the  nurse,  anxious  to  please. 

"No,  no,"  said  Jaunty;  "She  was." 

The  nurse  nodded.  He  was  strange,  this  funny  old  man. 
She  asked  if  he  were  suffering,  and  he  said  no,  it  was 
excitement. 

"When  you've  seen  as  many  as  I  have,"  she  said,  "they 
won't  excite  you;"  and  she  tickled  the  baby's  chin  to  make 
him  laugh  when  there  was  nothing  to  laugh  at.  He  hadn't 
lived  long  enough  to  see  a  joke.  Jaunty  sniffed.  What 
were  numbers  ?  He  supposed  he  couldn't  see  her? 

"Who— the  mother?" 

"Of  course." 

"Well,  I  don't  know — are  you  a  relation?" 

"Do  I  look  it?"  he  asked  indignantly. 

"I  see  a  likeness — a  strong  likeness — in  the  baby,"  said 
the  nurse,  leaning  over  the  bassinette;  and  a  likeness  there 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  237 

certainly  was  in  the  colour  of  the  two  faces— one  young 
and  wrinkled  and  red,  the  other  old  and  wrinkled  and 
red. 

Mr.  Monk  was  very  kind  to  Jaunty.  He  said  Mrs.  Monk 
was  tired,  but  if  Jaunty  would  stay  the  night  he  should 
see  her  the  next  day,  and  Jaunty  stayed.  This  entailed  the 
writing  of  a  letter  ...  a  French  letter.  It  must  be  done, 
and  he  sat  down  at  the  nursery  table  to  do  it. 

"MADEMOISELLE,"  he  wrote, — "Le  petit  gar£on  est  beau  comme 
un  ange;  il  est  tres — like  Miss  Pamela  was  at  that  age — mais 
plus  rouge.  I  bear  the  excitement  well — we  all  do. — Yours 
faithfully, 

"JAUHTY." 

Jaunty  followed  his  letter,  and  arrived  in  Panslea  a  few 
hours  after  it  had  been  read.  When  Mademoiselle  asked 
if  the  baby  was  all  right,  he  said  it  was.  What  about  his 
letter,  the  French  part?  Mademoiselle  said  it  was  excel- 
lent, what  there  was  of  it. 

"Same  with  the  baby,"  he  said. 

"But  tell  me  more,"  begged  Mademoiselle;  and  Jaunty 
told  her  everything  that  had  happened  to  him,  everything 
that  had  been  said  to  him,  from  the  moment  he  had  set 
foot  in  Mr.  Monk's  house.  With  awed  reverence  he  de- 
scribed Pamela.  Never  in  her  life  had  she  looked  so  good, 
or  so  like  her  mother. 

She  really  seemed  pleased  with  the  baby,  which  he  had 
never  expected  she  would  be.  At  that  Mademoiselle  raised 
her  eyes  heavenwards.  "Mon  cher,  is  she  not  a  woman,  the 
adorable  Pamela — first  of  all  things  a  woman — that  was 
the  trouble.  Did  I  not  say  always  that  she  was  at  heart 
the  child  of  truth  and  goodness  ?" 

"They  must  have  been  of  the  French  variety,"  said 
Jaunty. 

"And  Mr.  Monk?"  asked  Mademoiselle,  ignoring  Jaun- 
ty's  last  speech. 

"Mr.  Monk?"  asked  Jaunty,  raising  his  hands  in  mock 


238  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

horror.  "When  he  has  had  to  do  with  two,  as  I  have,  he 
won't  be  so  excited." 

At  that  moment  Mr.  Lawrence  came  in  to  say  Miss  Ma- 
son would  like  to  see  Jaunty,  and  Jaunty  went  down  to 
see  Miss  Mason,  wondering  what  right  she  had  to  know 
about  babies,  and  he  found  not  only  Miss  Mason,  but  Miss 
Beech,  and  Miss  Doe  and  Miss  Eleanor  Doe,  and  Mrs. 
Masters,  all  gathered  together.  He  told  them  all  about 
the  baby.  The  baby  was  small;  but  there  was  much  to 
tell,  and  in  what  he  told  there  was  much  of  truth  and  much 
more  of  imagination,  pure  and  simple.  After  he  was  done 
and  his  audience  dispersed,  Anne  Beech  said  to  him,  "And 
I  have  something  to  tell  you,  Jaunty." 

And  Jaunty  said  he  knew  what  it  was. 

"How?"  she  asked,  with  the  thing  written  so  plainly  on 
her  face  that  any  one  might  have  read  it  who  had  learned 
his  letters. 

Jaunty  couldn't  say;  he  knew  it,  that  was  all. 

"And  you  wish  me  happiness." 

"As  I  would  wish  it  for  my  Miss  Sally,"  and  more  he 
couldn't  say.  Then  he  added: 

"If  she — my  Miss  Sally — came  to  care  some  day  for 
some  one  else,  miss — what  would  you  say?" 

"I  should  say  'Thank  God,'  "  said  Anne. 

Jaunty  looked  at  her,  saw  that  she  spoke  the  very  truth, 
saw  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  said: 

"She  does,  miss." 

"Thank  God,"  said  Anne,  true  to  her  word.  "What  are 
you  looking  for,  Jaunty?"  for  Jaunty  was  looking  around. 

"I  remember,"  he  said;  and  he  went  to  the  clock,  opened 
the  case  and  took  out  the  hammer  and  nails. 

"The  rug  slips,  miss;  the  baby — we  must  be  careful." 

"You  dear,  funny  old  Jaunty." 

Jaunty/  stooped  to  tack  down  the  rug;  as  he  did  it  he 
staggered.  Anne  steadied  him  and  he  caught  hold  of  the 
banister. 

"Jaunty,  what  is  it?" 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  239 

"It's  only  excitement,  miss.  With  care,  the  doctor  says 
I  shall  live  till  .  .  ." 

"Jaunty,  dear  Jaunty." 

"Doctors  don't  know,  miss — don't  be  alarmed.  They 
make  far  too  much  fuss  about  babies;  it's  money  to  them, 
of  course.  But  it  gives  women  an  undue  sense  of  their  own 
importance — it  makes  fools  of  men.  I  forgot  all  the  trou- 
ble Miss  Pamela  ever  was  when  I  saw  her  lying  there — 
she  was  so  like  her  mother.  If  a  baby  can  do  that — there 
should  be  more  of  them." 


XXVI 

PANSLEA  settled  down  into  winter,  quiet  winter  days. 
Jaunty  was  going  to  have  a  Christmas  tree  for  the  baby. 
You  couldn't  begin  too  young  with  children — besides  it 
would  amuse  Miss  Sally.  She  was  happier,  there  was  no 
doubt  about  that.  "It  will  be  all  right,  Jaunty?  You  are 
sure  it  will?"  she  asked. 

"All  in  God's  good  time,"  he  answered. 

"Not  in  your  good  time?    Are  you  sure  it's  not  yours?" 

And  he  didn't  deny  it — didn't  seek  to  deny  it. 

Matilda  knitted  woollen  boots  by  the  dozen.  There  was 
a  stack  of  them  on  the  workroom  table,  and  into  every 
stitch  she  knitted  was  woven  joy  and  happiness,  and 
Jaunty  put  his  fingers  into  the  boots  and  smiled  at  their 
smallness.  "Do  you  do  them  out  of  your  head,  Matilda?" 
he  asked.  Matilda  said  she  had  directions.  She  pointed  to 
a  sheet  of  notepaper,  yellow  with  age  and  broken  at  the 
folds.  Jaunty  sniffed.  He  knew  the  date  of  those  direc- 
tions. He  would  rather  she  had  worked  from  others. 
These  would  open  wounds.  He  suggested  a  variety  in 
sizes,  and  Matilda  said  he  was  encroaching  on  her  depart- 
ment ;  and  he  begged  her  not  to  go  back  into  her  old  ways — 
contrary  ways — and  she,  knowing  the  ways  had  been 
Jaunty's,  not  hers,  was  generous  enough  not  to  say  so,  and 
she  added  more  stitches  and  used  finer  needles,  and  so  de- 
ceived, and  at  the  same  time  satisfied  Jaunty — mere  man 
that  he  was. 

Pamela,  Mr.  Monk,  Master  Monk — or  the  baby  monkey, 
as  Pamela  called  him — two  nurses  and  a  maid,  all  came 
for  Christmas,  and  those  that  couldn't  put  up  at  Mr.  Law- 
rence's went  to  the  farm,  and  the  glories  of  Mrs.  Monk's 
home  in  London  were  told  in  the  village.  But  Panslea 

240 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  241 

laid  claim  to  the  beauty  of  Mrs.  Monk.  Panslea  had 
brought  her  up. 

The  Christmas  tree  was  decorated  by  Jaunty,  and  he 
gave  the  baby  a  trumpet,  and  no  one  blamed  him  for  it, 
because  the  baby  bubbled  down  it  and  didn't  blow,  so  it  was 
as  good  a  present  as  any  other. 

The  mouthpiece  was  china.  Jaunty  pointed  that  out 
with  pride,  and  was  furious  when  it  was  sterilised  every 
day.  He  had  brought  up  two  children  without  nonsense 
of  that  kind. 

Mademoiselle  was  busy  translating  French  nursery 
rhymes  into  English  for  the  baby,  and  English  nursery 
rhymes  into  French — also  for  the  baby — and  a  happy 
humming  came  from  her  room  as  she  worked. 

Miss  Eleanor  would  have  loved  to  paint  the  child,  but 

refrained  even  from  thinking  about  it,  for  fear She 

would  rather  never  paint  it  than  that  it  should  .  .  . 

Her  sister,  seeing  the  light  of  painting  in  her  eyes,  said, 
"My  dear  Eleanor,  in  your  love  for  your  art,  you  for- 
get .  .  ." 

"Never,  dear,  never;  children  come  first — art  follows." 

In  time  winter  gave  way  to  the  promise  of  spring;  then 
spring  fulfilled  her  promise,  loyally,  to  the  very  last  word 
in  buds ;  and  she  laid  carpets  of  purple  and  blue,  and  hung 
curtains  of  white  and  rose  embroidered  in  gold;  wreathed 
the  trees  in  garlands  of  blossom ;  painted  the  heavens  azure 
by  day,  saffron  by  night;  starred  the  sward  with  jewels; 
set  light  to  the  gorse-bushes  on  the  hill;  rained  showers  of 
diamonds,  set  in  the  pure  gold  of  sunshine;  made  the  birds 
to  sing  from  the  very  joy  of  living,  building  and  nesting — 
and  yet  Sally  looked  for  more.  Even  though  she  found  a 
little  of  Heaven  imprisoned  in  the  speedwell  she  counted 
her  world  lost,  and  she  watched  Jaunty.  His  good  spirits 
persisted.  He  never  looked  depressed  or  despondent,  and 
she  didn't  dare  give  up  the  hope  that  burned  in  his  brav« 
old  eyes. 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

"Is  it  coming  soon,  Jaunty — must  it  be  June?  June 
comes  so  slowly/'  she  said  one  day. 

"Soon?  What  is  soon?  Does  the  spring  come  soon  to 
the  withered  branches  of  the  tree — does  the  sap  seem 
long  in  rising?  Does  release  come  soon  to  the  prisoner 
who  knows  relief  is  on  its  way?  Does  happiness  ever  come 
flying?  Doesn't  it  come  slowly  that  it  may  leave  its  foot- 
marks on  the  path  so  that  others  may  find  the  way? — I  am 
no  poet,  miss,  but  do  you  understand?" 

And  she  had  to  say  she  understood. 


XXVII 

IT  was  to  come  sooner  than  Jaunty  thought. 

"If  a  beautiful  young  creature  can  spare  a  few  minutes 
to  an  old  woman,  the  old  woman  will  be  very  grateful,  and 
the  young  one — she  hopes — may  not  repent  of  her  kindness. 
The  name  of  the  old  woman  is  Wentford."  In  such  a 
manner  it  came. 

The  writer  went  on  to  say  if  Sally  would  send  a  message 
by  the  bearer  the  writer  of  the  note  would  be  with  her  in 
a  very  short  time;  in  fact,  she  was  waiting  outside.  Sally 
read  the  note  over  and  over  again,  and  when  she  had  read 
it  her  heart  felt  suffocating  with  joy. 

Jaunty  waited  to  know  what  the  note  was  about. 

Sally  asked  him  if  he  had  any  business  papers  for  her 
father,  and  he  said  he  could  always  find  some — if  neces- 
sary. 

"Well,  for  twenty  minutes,  Jaunty;  please,  will  you 
keep  him? — just  for  twenty  minutes.  Every  other  moment 
of  my  life  I  shall  want  him — and  you !"  Jaunty  shook  his 
head;  he  knew  better. 

"It's  good  news,  miss  ?"  he  asked. 

"Jaunty  dear,  I  am  going  to  feel  something  of  what  it 
must  be  to  have  a  mother.  .  .  ." 

Jaunty  looked  jealously  at  the  picture  that  hung  on  the 
wall.  Sally  saw  the  look,  understood  it,  and  said,  "She 
would  be  glad — she  is  glad,  Jaunty." 

"Twenty  minutes?  The  income-tax  paper  will  just  do 
it,"  he  said,  and  he  went  away.  Now  that  happiness  was 
within  reach  of  his  young  lady,  he  would  withhold  it  from 
her,  from  feelings  of  mean  and  petty  jealousy.  He  knew 
himself  mean  and  petty,  and  therein  lay  his  salvation.  He 
tried  to  announce  Mrs.  Wentford,  but  couldn't  because  of 
the  tears  that  were  in  his  voice. 

243 


244  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

Mrs.  Wentford  walked  into  the  room,  looked  round,  and 
seeing  Sally  standing  in  the  window  held  out  her  arms. 
It  was  all  the  invitation  Sally  needed. 

"My  beautiful  child,"  said  Mrs.  Wentford;  then  she  held 
her  at  arm's  length  and  said,  "I'm  not  surprised  now — 
I  couldn't  believe  all  my  Neil  told  me.  Now  tell  me:  am 
I  wrong  in  coming,  or  am  I  right?" 

"Oh,  right,"  said  Sally,  blushing  exquisitely,  with  her 
soul  in  her  eyes.  "How  did  you  know?" 

"Need  you  know  that  so  long  as  I  do  know?  And  as  I 
do  know,  ought  I  to  stand  back  when  perhaps  I  might  help 
him?  Now,  my  child,  I'm  not  going  to  deprive  Neil  of  any 
of  his  rights.  I  am  not  going  to  make  love  to  you  in  any 
kind  of  way,  but  I  want  to  know  if  I  may  tell  him  he  has 
waited  long  enough  ?" 

"Has  he  been  waiting?"  asked  Sally. 

"Do  you  know  him  so  little?" 

"No,  no;  but  .  .  ." 

"But  you  must  have  your  sacred  things  that  you  can't 
talk  about,  of  course;  but  I  may  tell  him  he  has  waited 
long  enough,  and  you  know  it  will  bring  him  here  as 
quickly  as  car  can  bring  him — you  don't  mind  that?" 

"I  shall  be  waiting,"  said  Sally. 

"I  shall  not  tell  him  I  have  seen  you.  I  shall  only  say 
I  have  heard  that  he  has  waited  long  enough." 

"What  he  heard  about  another  was  never  true — but  I 
could  not  say  so.  Dear  mother  of  Neil,  there  is  one  thing 
I  must  say.  I  wanted  him  to  be  the  only  one — and  the 
world  will  think  .  .  ." 

"My  child,  the  world  will  soon  forget;  and,  after  all, 
the  love  of  a  dear  boy  could  do  you  no  harm  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world,  and  if  you  had  loved  him — it  would  have 
been  natural  enough,  wouldn't  it?" 

Sally  couldn't  say;  in  fact,  she  found  it  very  difficult  to 
say  anything.  Nothing  seemed  natural.  Mrs.  Wentford 
saw  that ;  knew  it  was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world ; 
knew  that  no  mother  has  a  right  to  intrude  where  sons  fear 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  245 

to  tread,  so  she  said,  "It  is  only  that  I  am  a  jealous  mother 
and  wanted  to  see  what  kind  of  a  child-woman  she  was 
whom  my  son  loved.  He's  been  everything  to  me;  let  me 
gain  a  daughter  and  not  lose  a  son.  Is  this  your  beautiful 
mother  ?" 

She  went  and  stood  before  the  portrait  of  Mrs.  Law- 
rence, and  the  girl  looked  out  from  the  canvas  on  to  the 
other  girl — her  child — and  on  to  the  much  older  woman, 
and  there  was  the  smile  in  her  eyes  that  Sally  knew  so 
well.  It  seemed  to  deepen,  her  lips  seemed  to  move.  "She 
might  be  a  child,"  said  Mrs.  Wentford. 

"She's  older  now,"  said  Sally,  "that's  what  she  was 
when  .  .  ." 

"May  I  see  him?" 

Sally  went  to  fetch  her  father.  She  brought  him  back. 
She  opened  the  door — saw  him  hold  out  his  hand — saw 
Mrs.  Wentford  take  it — then  she  closed  the  door  on  them — 
the  unfortunate  parents  each  demanding  of  the  other  what 
they  most  loved  in  the  world. 

"I  have  not  been  quite  honest,  Mr.  Lawrence,"  said  Mrs. 
Wentford;  "I  could  not  wait  the  full  time.  I  had  to  see 
your  child." 

"What  time  ?"  asked  Mr.  Lawrence. 

"That  wonderful  old  man  who  calls  himself  a  butler  said 
it  must  be  June ;  that  Neil  must  wait  till  June — and  I  came 
to  see.  Must  he  wait?  He  arrives  home  from  abroad  to- 
morrow— must  he  wait  ?  It  has  been  long  as  it  is." 

Then  seeing  that  Mr.  Lawrence  was  puzzled  she  asked  if 
he  didn't  know;  and  Mr.  Lawrence  said  he  had,  of  course, 
heard  of  her  son,  but  he  had  not  known  what  Sally's  feel- 
ings were;  he  had  imagined  .  .  . 

"And  now  that  you  know?" 

Mr.  Lawrence  said  he  would  rather  have  heard  it  from 
Sally  herself.  "Forgive  me;  I  am  a  jealous  father,"  he 
pleaded. 

"It's  what  I  said  of  myself  a  moment  ago,  as  a  mother. 


246  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

It  is  what  we  parents  must  feel  if  we  really  love — but  for 
a  moment  only;  then  real  love  must  triumph." 

"Sally  is  more  to  me  than  anything  in  the  world." 

"And  Neil  to  me." 

"How  did  Jaunty  know?"  asked  Mr.  Lawrence. 

"Does  it  matter  how  he  knew  so  long  as  he  did  know?" 

Mr.  Lawrence  supposed  not;  but  Jaunty  was  uncanny  in 
the  way  he  always  knew  everything. 

Mrs.  Wentford  had  not  come  to  talk  about  Jaunty.  She 
had  seen  Sally;  it  was  enough.  Mr.  Lawrence  had  not 
mentioned  money  matters,  which  was  curious;  then  she 
remembered  he  was  unlike  other  people;  but  as  he  said 
good-bye  to  her  he  promised  her  Sally.  He  did  not  say  so 
in  words,  but  Mrs.  Wentford  read  it  in  his  eyes. 

"He  will  be  good  to  her?"  he  asked. 

"What  a  question  to  ask  a  mother !"  murmured  Jaunty 
who  overheard.  "Will  he  never  learn?" 

Mrs.  Wentford  went  without  seeing  Sally  again,  and  Mr. 
Lawrence,  having  seen  her  off,  went  back  to  the  library  and 
stood  before  the  portrait  of  Sally's  mother.  As  he  was 
standing  there  Sally  came  into  the  room,  and  putting  her 
arms  round  him  buried  her  face  in  his  coat.  He  held  her. 
Then  gently  he  raised  her  face,  and  looking  at  her  tenderly 
saw  softly  shining  in  her  eyes  the  light  that  had  shone  in 
the  eyes  of  her  mother. 

"What  did  he  say?"  said  Jaunty  as  Sally  came  out  of 
the  room. 

"Nothing!" 

"He  wouldn't,"  said  Jaunty,  "he  wouldn't  trust  himself. 
Does  the  young  man  know,  I  wonder,  what  he  is  asking 
for?  How  can  we  give  it?" 

Jaunty  knew  that  at  this  moment  Mr.  Lawrence  must 
have  gone  back  in  thoughts  to  those  happy  long-ago  days, 
so  it  became  his  duty  to  disturb  him.  He  went  into  the 
library. 

"How  did  you  know,  Jaunty?"  Mr.  Lawrence  asked, 
looking  up  as  Jaunty  came  into  the  room. 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE  «47 

"Must  you  know,  sir?" 

"Why  not?" 

"I  would  ask  you  to  spare  me,  sir." 

"No,  tell  me;"  and  if  Mr.  Lawrence  had  but  known  he 
would  not  have  pressed  the  question. 

"It's  the  only  thing  I  have  ever  done  of  which  I  shall 
be  eternally  ashamed.  I  determined  to  read  Miss  Sally's 
love-letter.  I  should  have  read  it — it  seemed  to  me  the 
only  way  of  getting  to  the  bottom  of  a  bad  business — I 
should  have  read  it  even  had  not  the  puppy  delivered  it 
into  my  hands.  I  read  it  knowing  it  was  Miss  Sally's  let- 
ter— the  puppy  saved  me  the  humiliation  of  looking  for  it. 
I  make  no  excuses  for  myself.  I  read  the  letter  on  pur- 
pose because  I  saw  she  was  unhappy — I  knew  she  was." 

"It  was  no  excuse,  Jaunty,"  said  Mr.  Lawrence,  a  little 
jealous  perhaps. 

"None,  sir;  but  now  it  is  done,  and  it  has  brought  hap- 
piness to  Her  child,  am  I  bound  to  grieve — till  the  end  of 
my  days?" 

"It  was  the  only  way?"  asked  Mr.  Lawrence. 

"The  only  way." 

"She  wouldn't  have  told  you?" 

"What  she  wouldn't  tell  her  father?     Never,  sir." 

That  was  clever  of  Jaunty.  He  healed  a  wound  he  did 
not  know  he  had  made. 

"Well,  Jaunty,  all  you've  been  all  your  life  must  be 
taken  in  extenuation,"  and  Jaunty  went  from  his  master 
sorrowful  and  sore  at  heart. 

The  sight  of  Sally,  radiant,  beaming,  blessing  him,  re- 
stored his  faith  in  the  world  and  in  himself.  "You  forgive 
me,  miss?"  he  asked. 

"Jaunty,  Jaunty,  I  don't  know  what  you  have  done,  but 
you  shall  be  numbered  among  the  saints.  Nobody  under- 
stands as  you  do,  Jaunty.  You  always  did — do  you  re- 
member? I  seem  to  be  a  child  again — nobody  understands 
as  you  do." 

And  for  this  moment  and  others  Jaunty  had  lived.     It 


248  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

was  not  an  entirely  happy  moment;  but  the  joy  out- 
weighed the  unhappiness.  He  went  back  to  the  library  and, 
opening  the  door,  he  said: 

"Sir,  there's  no  reason  any  one  should  know  how  I 
gained  my  knowledge?" 

"No,  Jaunty,  no  reason  that  I  can  see. — Here,  Jaunty! 
I  forgive  you,  you  understand  that?" 

"It's  all  the  forgiveness  I  want.  I  wouldn't  disappoint 
you  for  anything  in  the  world." 

"Not  even  for  .  .  .?"  Mr.  Lawrence  pointed  to  the 
door. 

"Not  even  for  Miss  Sally — now  that  she  is  happy." 


XXVIII 

THE  next  morning  at  the  same  hour  that  Mrs.  Wentford 
had  come,  Neil  came.  Jaunty  announced  him,  then  closing 
the  door  he  went  to  Mr.  Lawrence  and  said,  "He's  come — 
you  won't  go  in?"  and  Mr.  Lawrence,  pretending  to  be 
indignant,  said,  "You  take  too  much  upon  yourself."  Then 
he  saw  Jaunty 's  face,  saw  what  a  burden  of  sorrow  he  was 
bearing  now  that  the  time  had  come,  and  said,  "As  bad 
as  that,  Jaunty?" 

"I  shall  soon  give  up  my  charge,  sir." 

"No,  you  mustn't  do  that;  we  can't  do  without  you." 

Jaunty  smiled.     He  was  glad  to  hear  it,  in  a  way. 

He  smiled  as  he  trudged  upstairs;  Matilda  must  not  be 
left  out  of  this.  He  stopped  every  now  and  then  on  the 
stairs;  he  was  out  of  breath  from  excitement.  He  went  to 
the  workroom. 

"It's  all  right,  Matilda,"  he  said. 

"It's  kind  of  you  to  tell  me  so,  Mr.  Jaunty.  You  are 
out  of  breath." 

"What  else  should  I  be  at  my  age  ?  Will  you  tell  Serena  ? 
and  tell  her  her  cooking  will  pass  muster  to-day.  Tell  her 
it's  all  right,  I  haven't  time.  Tell  her  pancakes  will  do — 
anything  will  do — he  won't  know  what  he  eats  to-day." 

And  Matilda's  heart  swelled  within  her.  Serena's 
wooden  leg  had  won  her  confidences  in  the  past.  Now 
Matilda  had  been  told  and  not  Serena.  Serena  had  stood 
too  long  on  the  merits  of  her  wooden  leg. 

Jaunty  went  downstairs  into  the  pantry — that  was  not 
really  a  pantry — and  he  sat  down  at  his  table.  He  turned 
the  key  in  the  drawer  and  opened  it.  He  took  out  a  packet 
of  letters.  From  several  he  drew  out  one.  It  was  addressed 
to  "My  Sally,  to  be  given  to  her  the  day  of  her  engage- 

249 


250  JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

ment."  The  rest  he  tied  up  again  and  closed  the  drawer. 
The  one  letter  he  had  taken  from  the  others  he  put  in  his 
breast  coat  pocket.  Then  he  took  up  a  pen.  .  .  .  The  pen 
dropped  from  his  fingers. 

And  Sally,  not  knowing  that  Jaunty  had  relinquished 
his  charge,  talked  to  Neil.  "But  you  should  have  known," 
she  insisted,  "that  day  by  the  river." 

And  Neil  said  that  for  two  glorious  hours  he  had  known 
— that  he  had  been  told  .  .  . 

"You  should  have  known  I  did  it  to  save  Anne  from 
sorrow.  It  seemed  the  only  way." 

"And  why  didn't  you  tell  me  to  save  me  from  sorrow? 
What  should  I  know  of  Anne?" 

"Could  I  have  told?  If  I  had,  it  would  have  made  it 
useless." 

"You  left  me  much  to  guess." 

"I  thought  you  would  have  known  by  the  river.  It 
seemed  then  that  everything  was  explained." 

"Yet  we  said  nothing." 

"It  was  what  you  didn't  say  that  was  so  wonderful." 

"You  understood?" 

"Everything  you  didn't  say.  Then  on  the  yacht — you 
looked  .  .  ."  Sally  put  her  hands  over  her  eyes  to  shut 
out  the  memory  of  that  look. 

Neil  drew  them  away  gently.  "Darling,  I  was  so  un- 
happy." 

"If  only  you  had  asked  me  to  explain — had  forced  me 
to  .  .  ." 

"I  wrote  .  .  ." 

"But  by  then  I  had  begun  not  to  understand  .  .  ." 

"If  it  hadn't  been  for  Jaunty  .  .  ." 

"Dear,  wonderful  Jaunty.     Let's  go  and  tell  him." 

"One  moment,  Sally;  look  at  me!" 

And  she  looked  at  him — after  that  there  could  be  no 
doubts. 

"Are  you  happy?" 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

"All  but  for  one  thing." 

"And  that?" 

She  told  him.    "You  don't  mind?"  she  asked. 

"Poor  old  Jimmy !"  Neil  looked  at  her  tenderly.  "Sally, 
have  you  realised  it  is  a  soldier  you  have  promised  to 
marry  ?" 

She  realised  it. 

"And  if  I  must  go  way  .  .  .  without  you?" 

"I  shall  wait." 

"And  if  I  come  home  .  .  .  wounded?" 

"I  shall  bind  your  wounds." 

"And  if  ...  I  don't  come  home?" 

"I  shall  join  you — on  what  Pamela  calls  the  farthest  of 
all  frontiers — where  she  says  I  shall  wait  for  .  .  ." 

"Who?"  asked  Neil  jealously. 

"Oh,  nobody!" 

"I  must  know.  Tell  me!"  he  pleaded.  Jimmy  he  didn't 
mind — poor  Jimmy;  but  another  .  .  .  "Tell  me!"  he  in- 
sisted. "Do  I  know  him?" 

Sally  shook  her  head. 

"Have  I  ever  heard  of  him?" 

"Never,  never,"  said  Sally.    Of  that  she  was  certain. 

"Are  you  fond  of  him?" 

"Not  yet;  I  shall  be — some  day — very." 

"I  will  try  to  like  him,  for  your  sake;  but  do  tell  me. 
Sally,  I'm  horribly  jealous.  Tell  me!" 

"If  you  must  know — my  grandson!  Let's  go  to  Jaunty 
— he  will  be  so  happy." 

But  Mr.  Lawrence  had  been  before  them.  He  had  gone 
into  the  pantry;  he  had  called  Jaunty.  There  was  no 
answer.  Jaunty  was  sitting  at  his  table,  his  head  bent 
low. 

"Jaunty,  the  child  is  so  happy,  so  radiant;  and  she  owjps 
it  to  you.  Jaunty!" 

There  was  no  answer,  and  Mr.  Lawrence  knew  why. 
What  he  did  not  know  was  what  Matilda  would  have  known 
at  once.  Which  was  that  Jaunty  had  probably  already 


JAUNTY  IN  CHARGE 

taken  charge  of  two  angel  babies,  and  was  putting  their 
wings  straight  and  tidying  them  up  all  round,  so  that  when 
their  mother  joined  them  she  should  say,  "Why,  this  must 
be  Jaunty 's  doing;  I  have  heard  all  about  him — he  brought 
up  the  Lawrence  children.  You  will  be  a  great  comfort 
to  me,  Jaunty!" 

Sally  came  to  the  door.  "Jaunty!"  she  called;  and  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life  he  did  not  answer. 

"He  is  not  there,"  said  her  father. 

"Then  we  must  find  him,"  she  said;  "he  hates  not  to 
know  things." 

And  for  that  very  reason,  if  for  no  other,  I  must  say 
nothing  more  of  Mr.  Lawrence,  Pamela,  Sally,  or  Panslea, 
because  Jaunty  would  hate  not  to  know.  Of  Mrs.  Hill — 
just  one  word  more. 


XXIX 

JANET  MASON  said   to    Mrs.   Hill,   "Did   Mrs.    Lawrence 
really  give  Jaunty  charge  of  her  children?" 

Mrs.  Hill  did  not  answer  at  once;  then  she  said,  very 
gently,  "Panslea  never  questioned  it.  ...  Shall  we  do  as 
Panslea  did?" 


253 


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